


The Pull of One Magnet to Another

by ellie_hell



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Case Fic, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, M/M, Matchmaking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-23
Updated: 2011-10-27
Packaged: 2017-10-23 23:55:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 46,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/256520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellie_hell/pseuds/ellie_hell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mummy has arranged Mycroft’s marriage with an ex-army doctor. However, John meets Sherlock first, and sparks fly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Взаимное притяжение](https://archiveofourown.org/works/644049) by [sKarEd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sKarEd/pseuds/sKarEd)



> Written several months ago for a prompt on the kink meme, but I wasn’t happy with it at the time, so I gave it a huge makeover. If anyone from the meme is reading this, I want to thank you for your huge support. The title comes from the song [I Was Married](http://dl.dropbox.com/u/31526342/01%20I%20Was%20Married.mp3) by Tegan and Sara.
> 
> Thanks to [](http://anarion.livejournal.com/profile)[**anarion**](http://anarion.livejournal.com/) who is always an inspiring plot consultant, and to [](http://omletlove.livejournal.com/profile)[**omletlove**](http://omletlove.livejournal.com/) who was an all-star beta, both for SPAG and plot; I couldn’t have hoped for a better beta, she’s amazing.  
> 

The three Holmeses were having tea in the Winter Garden restaurant of the very prestigious Landmark Hotel. The location had been Victoria Holmes’ idea; she had chosen it for its proximity to Baker Street because she knew her youngest son well enough to realise he would have found an excuse not to come if he had been summoned to the family’s estate. Mycroft had something extremely important to discuss with them, something that would apparently affect the whole family, and he had told his mother how crucial it was for her and Sherlock to be there.

Victoria looked at her two sons and smiled as something close to affection fluttered in her heart. Mycroft, as elegant as ever, seemed nervous, and from the way his mouth twisted, Victoria could tell he was fighting the urge to go back to his childhood habit of chewing on his lower lip. Meanwhile, Sherlock was looking everywhere except at his brother, his fingers drumming on the table while his teacup remained untouched in front of him.

“Well go on then, tell us what we’re doing here,” Victoria said to Mycroft, shaking him out of his deliberation.

Mycroft put his teacup on the table, leaned against the back of his chair, and crossed one very long leg over the other. He paused for a moment, remembering the speech he had prepared for the occasion, and when he felt he had made a dramatic enough effect, he started talking.

“I am now forty-one years old,” he began, ignoring Sherlock’s snort, “and I feel that, career wise, I have accomplished the goals I had set for myself. The position I am in is comfortable, stimulating, empowering, and let’s be honest, extremely lucrative.”

Victoria nodded, and Sherlock continued to look away, his features showing every sign of irritated boredom. The expression was so convincing, Victoria wouldn’t have been surprised to learn he had studied the look in a psychology textbook. When Sherlock rolled his eyes, Mycroft obviously spotted it, but he ignored him in favour of continuing his speech.

“I am now ready for something new in my life—”

“Is this about a new diet, Mycroft?” Sherlock taunted, “Because if it is, I don’t think it was worth disturbing my work.”

Victoria glared at her youngest son, and he fell silent again, but not without expressing his dissatisfaction with a huffing sound. She knew him well enough to know that in exactly 4, 3, 2, 1… and there it was; Sherlock let his head fall back in a way that would be painful decades from now once the years had caught up with him.

“What I’m trying to say is that I feel it is time for me to get married,” Mycroft concluded before picking up his teacup and taking a sip.

Immediately, Victoria’s face lit up with a radiant smile, and her eyes scintillated with joy. She had waited many years for this moment to come, ever since her son, a teenager at the time, had told her that although he wished to find someone to spend his life with, he wished that other person to be a man, and he wanted to wait until he had accomplished his career goals. Mrs Holmes had been disappointed, not by her son’s choice of a same-sex partner, but by the fact that she wouldn’t get to plan a wedding since, at the time, it hadn’t been legal. However, she was glad that Mycroft had decided to follow the tradition and rely on her to find him the perfect life partner.

The Holmeses were one of the old, wealthy families who still valued arranged marriages. Mrs Holmes’ marriage had been arranged by her husband’s mother, whose marriage had also been arranged, and so forth. It was only logical to let the experienced parents choose their children’s partners; the decision was then made based on sound principles and pragmatic criteria, and not clouded by fickle emotions or worse, hormones. The Holmeses didn’t believe in love at first sight; they had seen many proofs that a deep understanding coming from a sensible companionship was a more stable foundation for a relationship than love. The extremely low divorce rate in the family confirmed that belief year after year. Still, once every few generations, there was a rebellious Holmes who decided to get married after experiencing the alleged love at first sight; Mrs Holmes had been relieved as well as happy that Mycroft didn’t plan on being one of the renegades, so she didn’t mind the wait much.

However, passively waiting was not something the Holmeses were adept at. She knew that, statistically, it would be harder to find a male partner for her son than it would have been to find a female one; therefore she had begun her research while Mycroft had been in his early twenties and had just started climbing the government ladder. She had asked around her circle of friends, had had personal files of potential suitors sent from agencies that advertised they could help devoted parents arrange their children’s wedding, and had even visited an extremely exclusive club frequented by homosexual aristocrats, all without success.

Years had passed, and Mrs Holmes had continued keeping an eye open for potential partners. Her enthusiasm had been substantially fuelled when the Civil Partnership Act had been induced, and she could now imagine how beautiful the ceremony would be, with Mycroft standing next to the man she would choose for him. However, every potential candidate had been a disappointment, and she had eventually started cursing her own generation for raising Mycroft’s; the pompous, arrogant gits she had been meeting had had nothing in common with the gentleman her husband had been, and she was determined to find someone just as suitable for Mycroft. When it had become clear that she wouldn't find someone at the top of the social hierarchy, she had turned her attention to the Internet and the dating websites that were supposed to be all the rage.

It _was_ an easy and comfortable way to look for a potential husband; she could do it at home, include very specific search criteria, and the pictures helped eliminate those she knew her son wouldn’t find attractive. Since Mycroft wasn’t ready to settle down with a partner just yet, she devoted only a few hours per month to the search, but by the time Mycroft was thirty-five, she had developed a method.

She limited her search to men who were five years younger or older than Mycroft, who had an adequate career, were non-smokers, whose political views didn’t disagree with Mycroft’s, who weren’t vegetarians, didn’t have children, and spoke English as a first language. Among the years, she had bookmarked a handful of profiles that she occasionally checked to see whether they had been updated or deleted. There were three that she found particularly promising: the first one belonged to a red-headed accountant, the second one looked handsome enough to be a model, but was working in an engineering firm, and the last one – the one she found the most intriguing – belonged to a military doctor with kind blue eyes and a shy smile. John Watson seemed to be everything she was looking for, but he hadn’t logged on to the dating website since his profile had been created.

When the three Holmeses left the Landmark Hotel later that afternoon, Victoria knew the time had come to contact the three potential suitors. The endeavour would most likely take most of her time from now on, and she inwardly thanked the Lord that, for now, Sherlock wasn’t interested in women or men unless they had been brutally murdered. Arranging one wedding would be tiring enough; she couldn’t imagine having to organise two simultaneously. Much planning was indeed involved; she wanted Mycroft to be satisfied with her choice and for the resulting wedding to be perfect.

:::


	2. Chapter 2

Six months after he had tea with his mother and brother, Sherlock found himself in a cab, which wasn’t that unusual. What _was_ unusual was the situation he found himself in. He was heading to the train station, and he was late. Very late. He was supposed to pick up Mycroft’s betrothed, a task that should never have fallen into his hands if it hadn’t been for a series of unfortunate events. Mycroft’s help had been required in the République of Côte d’Ivoire, thus rendering him unable to welcome the man he was supposed to marry.

Mummy would have been the next logical choice, but she had woken up with a migraine, and she had called Sherlock, begging him to greet the no doubt inflated, jingoistic, social climber (Sherlock’s words, not Mummy’s) at the train station. Sherlock had protested vehemently, but his mother was nothing but determined, and Mycroft’s upcoming wedding was so crucial to her that she refused to trust anyone who wasn’t family with the simple task.

The train station was crowded, but even if he had never seen the face of the man he was supposed to pick up, Sherlock knew exactly what he was looking for: a man younger than Mycroft, but older than himself, someone irritated that no one had come for him yet, and anxious, thinking that no one would. After just a few minutes of scanning the crowd, he spotted someone who fitted that description, but something wasn’t right.

His hair was not quite brown, yet not quite blond, with streaks of grey. He was frowning, which made him look tired and older than he probably was, and he had an obvious nervous habit; he licked his lower lip every minute or so. His ears were too large, his mouth was too thin, he had bags under his eyes, and the shadow of a beard was visible on his rough cheeks. He was sitting on a bench, a large suitcase beside him with a hospital-issued cane leaning against it. How could this ordinary handicapped man be Mycroft’s betrothed? Sherlock thought he must have been mistaken, but he very rarely was, so he snickered at the thought of his brother being stuck with an invalid. He wished he had remembered the man’s name; now he had to walk up to him and ask if he was the one supposed to marry his brother. How inconvenient.

The man probably felt observed because he looked up at Sherlock, and for a moment he looked surprised, his eyes widening very slightly. For a long moment, he remained still, taking in Sherlock’s appearance. When their eyes finally met, Sherlock was immediately sure this was the man who would be marrying Mycroft in a month. There was something in those blue eyes that spoke of hidden strength, a willingness to fight—yes, he _did_ look like an army man with his severe haircut and the stiff way he held his shoulders and torso. Then, while Sherlock was still staring, the other man got up, picked up his cane and limped up to him.

“Are you Mycroft?” he asked, and Sherlock cringed at being mistaken for his brother.

“I’m his brother, Sherlock Holmes,” he answered. “You’re the husband.”

“Yes, John Watson,” John answered and he looked relieved, probably because he hadn’t been stood up. He looked younger up-close, Sherlock thought, closer to his own age than Mycroft’s. John extended his hand and Sherlock shook it, noticing how straight John stood and how he didn’t seem to be favouring his uninjured leg. Psychosomatic injury then, that was interesting.

“Come, I have to take you to the family’s estate, but I need to stop somewhere first,” Sherlock said, and he watched as John limped to his suitcase and dragged it with difficulty.

When John was level with him, Sherlock turned to leave the train station, but not before he noticed the RAMC insignia on his suitcase. An army doctor, then. Another interesting discovery. Sherlock was making long strides that John had difficulties following, and when he found a cab, the driver shot him a disapproving look before helping John with his voluminous suitcase. For a moment, Sherlock wondered if John had expected him to carry it, but surely if his limp was psychosomatic he was perfectly able to take care of his luggage.

“Barts,” Sherlock told the cabbie, and they drove off.

John was looking out the window, but he often shot glances at Sherlock who was trying to concentrate on his BlackBerry, and was finding it harder than usual with John’s eyes on him.

“Ok, you’ve got questions,” Sherlock said in what he hoped was an invitation for John to talk.

“Yeah, actually I do. Where are we going?”

“Barts, obviously. You heard me tell the cabbie,” Sherlock answered curtly.

“What for?”

“I left my riding crop in the mortuary,” Sherlock answered casually, and John gaped at him.

“I’m torn between asking why you have a riding crop, what you were doing in a mortuary, and why you would ever need a riding crop in there.”

“Considering traffic, we’re ten minutes away. If you do it quickly you have time to ask all three of your questions.”

“No, I’ll just….” John trailed off, blushing ever so slightly. “What were you doing with a riding crop in the mortuary?” he finally asked.

“There was a case,” Sherlock answered. “I solved it by discovering the bruises on the man’s body had been made post mortem, but I needed to experiment in order to prove it.”

“A case?” John asked. “Do you work for Scotland Yard?”

“I don’t!” Sherlock said, mildly offended. “I’m a consulting detective, the police contact me when they are out of their depth.”

“Does that happen often?”

Sherlock snorted, but smiled at John.

“You have no idea.”

For the rest of the journey, John asked questions about the case, and every time Sherlock described a reasoning process that had led him to finding some answers, John’s eyes lit up. After John’s third exclamation – brilliant, fantastic, and another brilliant – Sherlock gave in to the smile pulling at the corner of his lips, and when they got out of the cab to enter Barts, there was a preening bounce in Sherlock’s steps.

In the morgue, Molly also glared at Sherlock when she noticed that John was carrying his suitcase by himself. He ignored her and quickly retrieved his forgotten riding crop, but as he was about to leave, a corpse caught his eyes and he approached, John curiously following. Sherlock then proceeded to tell his companion everything he could deduce about the dead woman’s life. He didn’t know where it was coming from, this desire to show off his observation abilities, but when John exclaimed that he was brilliant, it felt like getting a hit of something he didn’t know he had been craving. He wanted more, preferably now, so he moved on to the next corpse despite Molly’s protests, and he spent the next hour analysing every body in the morgue, impressing John by making deductions and pointing out what had led to his reasoning.

When they got out, the sun was setting, and Sherlock knew he was supposed to hail a cab and bring John to his mother’s house, but, strangely, he didn’t want to. There was something about John that puzzled him, something about him that he couldn’t quite put his finger on, and he hated letting go of a puzzle before he could solve it. Also, he had enjoyed John’s company throughout the afternoon, and he was reluctant to see him go, so instead of doing what was expected of him, he acted on impulse and asked John whether he was hungry.

“Starving,” he answered.

So Sherlock hailed a cab, and he asked to be dropped off not too far from his flat in front of a small and cosy Italian restaurant, Angelo’s. They were led to a booth close to the window, and they sat in somewhat awkward silence until they were brought menus.

“You should have the lasagne,” Sherlock suggested, and John looked up, one eyebrow raised questioningly.

“Can you _really_ deduce that I’m in the mood for lasagne?” he asked, disbelieving.

“No, of course I can’t, but the lasagne is really good,” Sherlock answered, and John’s laugh filled their booth.

Even if Sherlock had heard him laugh several times already, it was always a surprise. Just the fact that Sherlock could make someone laugh was unusual; plenty had laughed _at_ him along the years, but this was different. Also, John’s laugh was just a bit too high, but it had the intriguing effect of making Sherlock feel a few degrees warmer every time he heard it.

“What you did today, it was extraordinary,” John said, and Sherlock once again felt something warm spread from his chest to his fingers, but he shrugged it off, trying to appear unruffled.

“It’s what I do, it’s my job. I could do the same to you, if you want,” he suggested because there were many things he had observed about John that he wanted to confirm.

“Your mother probably told you everything she knows about me, so it wouldn’t be as impressive. You wouldn’t believe the number of questions she asked, but I think I understand; she doesn’t want her son to marry a serial killer,” John said with a small smile, clearly amused by the memory.

Up until that moment, John hadn’t brought up the issue of the wedding. He hadn’t asked where his future husband was, he hadn’t mentioned the upcoming engagement party, and he hadn’t complained when Sherlock had dragged him into a morgue instead of taking him to his mother’s house. Upon realising this, Sherlock was pleasantly surprised, and he found he didn’t want to discuss the upcoming wedding either. In fact, he wanted nothing more than to ignore it until he could figure out what was so unusual about the common man sitting in front of him.

“I have heard nothing about you,” he told John. “My brother and I are not close, and I have very little interest in his wedding.”

“Oh,” John said and he lowered his eyes to look at the toothpicks in the middle of their table.

That was strange. He had been smiling a few seconds before, and now he was frowning. For a moment, Sherlock wondered what had caused the sudden change, but when he realised that John probably thought Sherlock had no interest in _him_ , he wanted to kick himself.

“We could make it a game,” Sherlock suggested, “for everything I get right about you, I’ll tell you something about myself.”

“All right, but what if you guess wrong?” John asked, his curiosity piqued.

“I never guess,” Sherlock said, “but if I’m wrong, you tell me what I missed, and you may call me an idiot, something very few people get to do.”

At that moment, a grinning Angelo approached their booth. He was winding between tables with the natural grace of someone who had been walking around while carrying extra weight for many years. His mother had obviously been one of those people who serves their children ridiculously large portions of exceedingly rich food and expect them to finish everything on their plates. Upon seeing that Sherlock wasn’t alone, his smile grew even wider, and he straightened his tie, determined to make a good impression.

“Sherlock!” Angelo exclaimed. “How good to see you again, it’s been a while! You have no idea how happy you are making me, for all those years I’ve been telling you to bring a date, and you finally do! I’ll bring a candle, it’ll be more romantic,” he said, and he left so quickly neither John nor Sherlock had enough time to object.

John seemed uncomfortable, and it didn’t take long before Sherlock deduced why.

“Don’t worry about it, Angelo has been pestering me about bringing a date for years, and he got a little overexcited when he thought we were together, that’s all,” Sherlock said, making his voice as relaxed as possible. The last thing he wanted was to spend the rest of the dinner in awkward silence because John thought Sherlock was trying to seduce him.

“So you’re— He thinks….” John said, clearly uncomfortable with whatever he wanted to ask. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and leaned forward a little, urging him to continue.

“He knows you, err, date men, then?” John finally asked.

“I had to tell him, he kept trying to set me up with women. I don’t date, though, ever. I find the whole courtship ordeal extremely tedious,” Sherlock answered, hoping to close the subject.

His sexual orientation and his dating habits weren’t something he liked to discuss. Yet, it wasn’t as bad as usual with John. He was marrying his brother; therefore, he couldn’t be homophobic, or think Sherlock was coming on to him.

At that moment, Angelo returned with a candle, and he took their orders – lasagne for both of them and a bottle of red wine – which put an end to what could have been an uncomfortable silence. While waiting for their meal, John suggested they played Sherlock’s deducing game, and Sherlock got ready by adopting his favourite thinking position.

He took his time, attentively looking at John in order not to miss anything. He wanted to be right, but he wanted to deduce things that would take John’s breath away and make him think Sherlock was brilliant. If he deduced particularly surprising things, perhaps John would feel the need to praise him out loud, to call him brilliant or fantastic again. When he was ready, he started with the easier things.

He correctly deduced that John had studied medicine at Barts from his familiarity with the hospital’s corridors; he hadn’t only followed Sherlock, he had obviously known his way around the place. In exchange, John learned that Sherlock could play the violin, and that doing so helped him think, which explained why he tended to perform at all hours of the day or night. When John asked whether he was any good, Sherlock just scoffed and moved to his second deduction.

The RAMC logo on John’s suitcase, the strict haircut, the way he held himself, and the slightly upward tilt in his chin were all screaming that John had been in the army. It was such an easy conclusion to reach that Sherlock only gave away one of his food preference in exchange: Punjabi cuisine in general, Curry Chicken in particular. Next, he said that John had been invalided home from either Afghanistan or Iraq after sustaining an injury to the upper left side of his torso. It had been easy to put two and two together after observing John’s tan pattern and the stiffness in his left shoulder when he made certain movements. John confirmed that he had been in Afghanistan and that he had been shot in the left shoulder, but he declared that this actually counted as two deductions and he pestered Sherlock until he gave in and told him two things about himself. Hiding his smile behind his best annoyed expression, Sherlock told John that he had solved his first case at the age of seven (by finding his neighbour’s missing cat) and that he had studied chemistry in uni.

Still working on what he could infer from John’s appearance, Sherlock announced that John had broken his nose once while playing either rugby or football. John confirmed that it had happened during a rugby match, and Sherlock who was enjoying the odd quid pro quo even more than he had thought he would, remained on the subject of injury for his next declaration. He told John he had sustained a total of six concussions, three of them caused by someone hitting him over the head with something extremely heavy. It was a reflex for John, a doctor, to flinch at the revelation, but Sherlock assured him that he was still much smarter than most people, and John had to laugh. Sherlock felt the not uncommon flicker of pride in his chest; he had made John laugh again.

Next, Sherlock deduced that John's mother had died from a degenerative neurological disorder around seven years ago. When John, clearly impressed, asked how he had known, Sherlock explained that John’s jumper was around ten years old and that it had been hand-knitted by someone experiencing tremors and weakness in their fingers. The fact that John had decided to keep it all these years, and that he was wearing it on such an important day suggested a profound, sentimental attachment. John confirmed that it was the last jumper his mother had knitted before amyotrophic lateral sclerosis had rendered her unable to handle needles.

Sherlock wasn’t entirely clueless when emotions were concerned. He knew some people grieved for an unusually long time following the death of a loved one, and he knew it was proper to offer his sympathy when someone was in mourning. He could tell John wasn’t mourning, per se, but there was a distant sadness in his eyes as he spoke of his mother’s distress when she had realised she couldn’t knit anymore. In an attempt to provide some sort of comfort, Sherlock tried to remember Lestrade’s expression when he was talking to spouses of murder victims. He took that expression, dialled it down a little (John’s mother had been dead for seven years, certainly John’s grief had lessened over time), and he tried to apply it to his own face.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said and, surprisingly, John burst out laughing while Sherlock was watching him with a very real puzzled expression.

“What?” he asked.

“Have you seen your face?” John asked between fits of giggles.

His whole chest was shaking, he had a hand over his heart, and he was taking deep quivery breaths to regain a little composure, but his efforts were fruitless. Every time he looked up to glance at Sherlock, a new wave of laughter took hold of him, and Sherlock was watching him, not only puzzled, but also concerned and a little amused.

“What?” Sherlock repeated.

“Your face!” John wheezed, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Yes, I know, you said that already. No, I haven’t seen my face; there aren’t any mirrors around us,” he said, making John giggle some more, which delayed his answer again.

“That face you made, it looked like something you would see if you ever Googled ‘sympathetic expression’. It had no sincerity at all in it,” John explained, traces of laughter still dancing on his features.

To say Sherlock was stunned would have been an understatement. His fake facial expressions had never fooled Mycroft or Mummy, but Lestrade fell for them every time, so did the strangers he had to interact with. Yet, there was John Watson, barely off the train and into his life, who seemed in serious danger of unhinging his jaw from laughing too hard. How bizarre and intriguing.

“I’m sorry Sherlock, but you looked insane!” John chuckled, and Sherlock joined in briefly until Angelo brought them glasses and a bottle of wine. He put everything on the table and leaned towards the two other men as if to share a secret.

“I brought you one of my best bottles,” he whispered, gesturing at the wine, “some occasions are worth celebrating,” he added and, with a wink, he was gone.

“I’m not his date!” John cried after him, but either Angelo didn’t hear or he didn’t care.

Sherlock poured them each a glass of wine, and for a while, they drank in silence, enjoying the smooth and velvety taste of the crimson liquid. Soon after, Angelo brought them two heaping plates of lasagne. John attacked his meal with the gusto of a starving man while Sherlock watched, fascinated, as he took small bites of cheese.

“So, is that all you could deduce?” John asked after swallowing a ridiculously large mouthful. He had a smidgen of tomato sauce on the corner of his lips, and the tip of his tongue timidly darted out to lick it off.

“For now, yes,” Sherlock answered. “Hand me your watch or your phone and I’ll tell you more.”

John took his phone out of his pocket and carefully handed it to Sherlock, who took hold of it as carelessly as if it had been a pair of socks. Even if he was absorbed in his observation of the small device, Sherlock noticed how John cringed, and he smiled as pieces of the puzzle assembled themselves. The scratches and dents were like pages in an open book, flipping and begging him to unravel their secrets. Looking up at John, he slid a finger across the back of the mobile phone, over the engraving.

“The phone wasn’t originally yours; it was your brother’s. It’s easy to tell from his name, Harry Watson, engraved on the back of the phone. It can’t be your father or a cousin; this is a young man’s gadget and the high cost means very close relative. The way you handle it, one would believe you are handling priceless porcelain, but the phone, despite being no older than six months old, is full of cracks and dents. Someone handling it as carefully as you do would not have a six months old phone looking like this. Then, of course, there’s the engraving: From Clara with three kisses, sign of a romantic involvement. The cost of the device means Clara is his wife, not girlfriend, but why is he getting rid of it already? Their marriage was in trouble, and he left her; otherwise he would have kept the phone. Why did they split up? That’s a shot in the dark, but I suppose they didn’t agree on what ‘drinking too much’ means.”

“How can you possibly know about the drinking?” John asked, gobsmacked. Sherlock smiled, turning the phone over so he could show John the power connection.

“Do you see the scuffmarks here? His hands shook so much when he plugged it in that he missed a few times before finally succeeding. You won’t see those marks on a sober man’s phone, but they’re always present on an alcoholic’s.”

“That. Was amazing,” John said, a forgotten piece of lasagne on his fork hovering halfway between his plate and his mouth.

“You think so?” Sherlock asked, overwhelmed by the swelling feeling of pride. He could almost imagine it leaking out of his every pore.

“Of course! It was extraordinary, it was quite…extraordinary,” John said, and he was startled by the untouched piece of lasagne falling off his fork and into his half-empty plate with a loud ‘plop’. A little bemused, he stabbed the four layers of pasta with his fork and brought it to his mouth.

“Was I wrong about anything?” Sherlock asked.

“You were,” John answered, his eyes twinkling mischievously. “Idiot,” he added as an afterthought, remembering the original rules of their little deducing game.

Sherlock furrowed his brows, the deductions he had just made about John running through his head. How could he be wrong? The new phone with so many scratches, the shaking hands plugging it in every night, the engraving, the breakup…. Perhaps John’s brother wasn’t an alcoholic; maybe he had inherited his mother’s disease, but that didn’t make sense.

“What is it?” he asked, and John smiled, swallowing his mouthful of pasta before answering the question. Partly because it was polite to do so, but mostly because it was fun to keep Sherlock waiting.

“Harry is my sister. It’s short for Harriet,” he said, and Sherlock winced as if he had been hit with an extremely heavy object, and was about to sustain his seventh concussion.

“Your sister!” he exclaimed before groaning and burying his face in his hands. “Sister! I always miss something, but it’s rarely as plebeian as falling for a stereotypical gender issue.”

“It was still brilliant,” John said, “and it counts as two things you got right. Also, you owe me one revelation for correctly deducing that my mother died of a degenerative disease.”

Sherlock looked up from behind his hands and thought for a moment, wondering what he could tell John. John who, despite having met him only a few hours before, already knew more about him than most people. Since he had deduced something significant about John’s family, he decided to open up a little about his own, but he stayed far away from the subject of his relationship with Mycroft.

“My father left my mother twenty years ago and I haven’t seen him since, when I was younger my only ambition was to retire to the country and keep bees, and I have a birthmark on my inguinal ligament shaped like a—”

He was interrupted by John’s loud cough as he choked on his lasagne, and the beeping sound announcing the arrival of a new text message. He dug the device out of his jacket pocket and glared at the screen. The message was from Mycroft.

 _Why isn’t John at Mummy’s house? What have you done with him?_

 _I haven’t done anything, he’ll be with Mummy tomorrow._

 _He better be_.

Sherlock fought the childish urge to stick his tongue out at his BlackBerry; instead, he turned to John who was taking his wallet out of his back pocket, his face still red as he fought the last traces of his coughing fit.

“You don’t need it here, Angelo owes me a favour, and he repays me in Italian food. Now, we could take a cab to my mother’s house, but it’s an hour and a half from here, and you’ve been yawning for the last fifteen minutes. If you want, you can spend the night in my flat,” Sherlock said, perfectly aware that the proposal was superfluous. John was clearly exhausted; his cheeks were red from the wine, and he looked like a man ready to fall asleep at the first occasion.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to impose—” John started, but Sherlock cut him off.

“It’s no bother at all. I have a spare bedroom, and I can make sure my mother knows you will be there tomorrow.”

“I’m gonna take you up on that offer, then. I’m knackered,” John said, and together they left the restaurant.

That time, when John picked up his suitcase, Sherlock genuinely observed. John’s shoulders remained straight as he pulled on the handle. His jaw was clenched, and he had a determined look in his eyes. It couldn’t have been more evident: for John, a proud man, it was necessary to carry his luggage by himself, no matter how difficult the task was. It was a way to fight his stubborn leg, to show the world – and himself – that he wasn’t an invalid. During the few minutes it took them to return to Baker Street, Sherlock wondered if there was a way to rid John of his psychosomatic limp.

When they reached Sherlock’s flat, it took some time but John managed to haul his suitcase all the way upstairs. When Sherlock opened the door to 221B, there was a shyness in his movements brought on by the fact that he didn’t often bring people back here. John looked around for a while, chuckling when he saw the skull on the mantle, and he sat in an armchair with a long sigh. He _did_ look tired, Sherlock thought, and he was reminded of his mother saying it was kind to offer upset guests a cup of tea. For a few seconds, he wondered if tired counted as upset, and if he even had some tea, but Mrs Hudson interrupted his thoughts when she sneaked into the kitchen.

“Sherlock! There is a _man_ here with you!” she whispered, and Sherlock turned around to make sure John hadn’t heard.

“Yes Mrs Hudson, he’s one of my brother’s friends.”

“Your brother playing matchmaker, how charming of him!” she said, and she looked as excited as a little girl on Christmas morning.

“He positively is not,” he replied quietly, but then he spotted the two striped mugs and biscuits she had put on a tray. For once, he was grateful for his landlady’s total inability to stay out of other people’s business, especially when she believed there was romance involved.

“I know you, it’s very unlikely you’ve got tea, so take this and be nice to him. Also, don’t worry about being loud, I sleep very soundly when I take my herbal soothers,” she said, and she winked before turning to leave.

Sherlock found her behaviour strange and confusing, but he didn’t linger on her words, and he brought the tray back into the living room. John accepted the mug, his eyes closing in obvious pleasure when he took a sip of the hot beverage. Sherlock smiled contently when he took the seat across from John’s. Maybe having a guest over wasn’t that dreadful; John seemed quite happy to be here and, if he was honest, Sherlock had to admit it was pleasant to have him in his flat.

When thinking about the fact that his companion had to leave the next day, something unpleasant and slightly territorial churned in Sherlock’s stomach. It seemed moot for John to leave for his mother’s house if Mycroft wasn’t even there; surely he would have a better time staying here with Sherlock than alone with his mother in her ridiculously large house. Yet, he couldn’t just ask John to stay for no apparent reason. He needed something to make him stay, something that would pique his interest. He had seemed fascinated by Sherlock’s tales of crime scenes and murders; if only there was a case, perhaps he could manipulate John into staying a little longer. Sherlock probably didn’t need much longer, just long enough to solve the mystery that was John Watson.

 _I need a case. An interesting one_ , he texted Lestrade.

The response was quick to arrive; after five years of knowing Sherlock, Lestrade was perfectly aware that he would be harassed incessantly if he didn’t send an answer right away.

 _I haven’t got any interesting cases._

 _I’ll make it interesting then, I need a case._

 _Sherlock, I can’t murder someone for your amusement._

 _Text me as soon as someone commits a crime, any kind of crime.  
_  
Sherlock pressed his joined index fingers against his lips and sighed; he needed to solve the enigma that was John Watson. He needed a case.

:::


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock didn’t sleep much that night; he kept looking at his phone in case he had missed a text from Lestrade, but either no crimes had been committed, or the DI was reluctant to involve him. That wouldn’t do. The sun was up, John would eventually come down into the living room, and Sherlock would have to take him to Mummy’s house. Or worse, Mummy would pick him up here. Either way, it was too soon. He needed more time; he needed to know _why_ John had been chosen to marry Mycroft, and most importantly, why he had accepted.

A lifetime as the husband of a dull government official, being dragged to dreadful functions and benefits…. John was a doctor, he was a soldier, and he had sewn people up while missile alarms had echoed in the camp. He had showed such an interest in Sherlock’s cases, had seemed thrilled just hearing about them; certainly he wasn’t the kind of person who would enjoy being married to someone like Mycroft. More time to acquire data, that’s all he was asking for. He was still working on a plan when his mother called. He answered, and she started talking immediately.

“Sherlock, what exactly do you think you’re doing?”

“John is safe, he spent the night in my flat. He was tired yesterday after we had dinner, so I offered my spare bedroom.”

“There shouldn’t have been a dinner,” she said in a tone that never failed to make Sherlock feel like a repentant eight-year-old child.

“I wasn’t even supposed to pick him up. I had other plans, and they took longer than I expected,” he said, not mentioning the fact that he had deliberately prolonged their stay at the morgue.

“Did you expect me to drag him into a cab without offering food when he was clearly hungry?” he asked.

“Well, what’s done is done, but John Watson will be in my house in no more than four hours. I’ve had enough trouble finding him and getting him to agree to this marriage, I will not have you scaring him off.”

“I am _not_ —” Sherlock began, but the line went dead when his mother hung up on him.

He looked up to see John looking at him curiously from the top of the stairs. His hair was ruffled and sticking out in all directions, and he was scratching the back of his head, which caused his t-shirt to ride up. From where he was standing in the sitting room, Sherlock could see a small slice of skin with a remarkably soft looking trail of golden-brown hair.

“Do you mind if I use your shower?” John asked, his voice roughened from disuse and his eyes heavy; he had obviously just woken up, and the tell-tale signs of sleep were all over him.

“Go ahead,” Sherlock answered before hurrying downstairs to borrow (not steal, obviously) a couple of teabags from Mrs Hudson.

Back in his kitchen, he rinsed the mugs they had used the night before, and as soon as he heard John turn the shower off, he put the kettle on and waited for the water to boil. Other than the biscuits Mrs Hudson had brought up the night before, there wasn’t anything edible enough to be called breakfast, maybe they could go out? Sherlock examined the countdown that had been running through his mind since his conversation with his mother: she wanted John back before 11:00; therefore, they needed to leave by 9:30. There was enough time left to go out for a bite.

Eventually, John came down and they had tea. Sherlock told John about his mother’s phone call, and maybe he was imagining it, but it seemed as though a shadow was clouding John’s eyes when Sherlock announced they were leaving in approximately two hours. However, it was gone as soon as it had appeared, and John seemed enthused by the suggestion of having breakfast out, so Sherlock took him to a small café not too far from Baker Street, John following more easily now that he wasn’t carrying an enormous suitcase. They chose the table closest to the open window, Sherlock bought them a couple of coffees and pastries, and when he came back to their table, John was looking out with a dreamy look on his face. He was obviously miles away.

“I miss London,” John said after a while, “I was living here before I left for Afghanistan, but I was living with Harry since I was sent back. I just wish I had more time….” he trailed off.

“Mycroft lives in London, you’ll be here all the time from now on,” Sherlock said, successfully hiding all trace of disgust in his voice.

John sighed, resting his chin on his right palm and looking out. “It’s not the same. You must know what it’s like walking around the city with no purpose other than looking around, no one expecting your return, being alone but not really because London’s there,” he said with a wistful smile.

“I know what you mean,” Sherlock said.

He did know how it felt, he couldn’t count how many times he had roamed the city just to take in his surroundings and enjoy the murmuring life around him. He wished he could show John _his_ London. The London that was buzzing with criminal activity, and filled with wild chases across rooftops.

“It’s such a beautiful day, in another life I would have gone for a walk in Hyde Park,” John said, still sounding wistful.

Sherlock watched him intently while a new plan was formed in his mind. If there was no pressing need for John to be back at his mother’s house, and if he missed being in London as a free man, perhaps an offer to stay for one more day would be well received. There was nothing Mummy could do, unless she decided to drive to London and pick John up herself, but it was worth the try. One day, just another day. It had to be enough to figure out why John had agreed to marry Mycroft, and if he got to know the intriguing man better, well that was just a little bonus wasn’t it?

“You could stay for another day, you know. Mycroft is away; you could spend some time visiting London as a free man,” Sherlock suggested, and John shot him a genuine smile.

“Are you—” John started to ask, but Sherlock anticipated the question and cut him off to answer irritatingly.

“Yes John, I’m sure. I don’t mind letting you stay in my flat for another night, it’s no bother at all.”

There wasn’t any trace of John’s previous heaviness left in him; his eyes were shining, and his smile was radiant.

“Thanks Sherlock, but what about your mother? She’s expecting me today.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Sherlock said as he took his phone out of his pocket. He was about to ring his mother, but talking to her meant she could argue, and she didn’t own a mobile, so texting her wasn’t an option. Instead, he texted Mycroft.

_John is staying with me until tomorrow. Tell Mummy._

Mycroft replied so quickly Sherlock didn’t have time to put his phone back into his pocket before it beeped again.

_John’s place is at home with Mummy._

_John wants to be in London; therefore, his place is in London._

_Don’t be childish._

_Piss off._

“There, it’s settled,” Sherlock told John as he pocketed his phone, “you’re staying with me for another day.”

“I really appreciate it,” John said, “I could cook you dinner as a way to thank you,” he suggested, and Sherlock brushed him off with a casual wave of his hand.

“I assure you, there is no need to thank me.”

“Come on Sherlock! Yesterday was the most fun I’ve had since I came back from Afghanistan. Also, we need to eat, and I’ve been told I’m not that bad.”

Sherlock glowed with pride; John had had fun with him. No one ever had fun with him. In fact, Sherlock rarely had fun in the presence of living people. It was improbable that both he and John would have had fun together, but apparently they both had enjoyed their visit to the morgue and the following dinner.

Once they were done with their coffees and pastries, there was an awkward moment in front of the café; Sherlock didn’t know if he was supposed to head back home or accompany John. They stood facing each other, John nervously tapping his fingers on the handle of his cane.

“I won’t stay out for long—my leg—will you be home this afternoon?”

“I don’t have plans, but if I’m out Mrs Hudson will let you in,” Sherlock said, and he couldn’t help feeling a little dejected that John was about to take off alone.

“If you haven’t got anything planned, maybe you could come with me?” John suggested.

Sherlock tried not to look too eager when he agreed; a grown man jumping with glee was unusual enough when he was alone, it would have looked ridiculous outside in broad daylight. For a moment, he thought about hailing a cab to spare John the walk to the park, but the psychosomatic limp intrigued him. He wanted to observe John’s walking pattern, to see how long he would go before asking for a break, how long until it got worse, or perhaps how long until it got better.

The journey to Hyde Park was pleasant; there weren’t too many pedestrians, and they pretty much had the pavement to themselves. A few times John noticed a shop that hadn’t been there when he had been in London the last time, and Sherlock enjoyed explaining what had happened to the old businesses (bankruptcy, closed by the Food Standards Agency, family crisis, death of the owner, and one particularly brutal murder). John was delighted by the extent of Sherlock’s knowledge of London’s streets, and he kept asking questions, eager to know more about the crimes that had been perpetrated in the area. They were both so engrossed in the conversation they almost didn’t notice that they had reached Lancaster Gate.

Upon entering the park, John went straight for the Lancaster Fountain, walked down the three stairs, and leaned on the railing to watch a small duck family happily floating on the Serpentine. Sherlock didn’t join him; he stayed behind and watched. John was standing perfectly straight, and his cane was resting on the railing beside him, forgotten for now. He was wearing a pair of dark jeans and an army-green jumper over a checked shirt, the collar barely visible under his black coat. It was the perfect example of common clothes, hiding what seemed like a very ordinary body. Nonetheless, Sherlock could easily make out the still muscled form underneath the multiple layers of clothing, see the defined biceps when John’s hands tightened on the railing, and distinguish the firm arse under the denim.

Sherlock could feel something fluttering deep in his stomach as he detailed John’s appearance. He had experienced it before, a long time ago, when the work hadn’t been the only thing at the front of his mind. He could vaguely remember the burning sensation in his abdomen, the shivers in his thighs, and he welcomed the early stirring signs of arousal with curiosity.

For the first time since he had picked John up from the train station, Sherlock wondered if there was a way he could steal him away from Mycroft, just for a little while. The thought startled him, and he pushed it away; John probably fascinated him only because there was something about him he hadn’t been able to deduce yet. If his observation skills weren’t enough, he was more than willing to resort to a strategy he rarely used: asking direct questions. It usually was an unreliable method to acquire data – everybody lied – but it was worth it in this situation.

When John climbed up the stairs again, Sherlock joined him, and they started walking along the Serpentine. Sherlock wasn’t walking as quickly as he normally would have, but his pace was unquestionably faster than John’s usual one. Yet, the shorter man was following, still limping but never out of breath. When the silence had stretched on for about five minutes, Sherlock decided to start actively working on discovering the secrets behind the upcoming arranged marriage.

“Tell me John, how did my mother find you?” he asked, and as if on cue, his phone buzzed. It was most likely his mother ringing him for the third time, and he ignored her once more. He looked at John quickly, and saw that he looked sheepish.

“Err, it was a dating website actually. Some fellow soldier’s idea of a prank.”

“A prank, really?”

“A few years ago, I went out for a few pints with some friends from the army, and as it often does, a few pints turned into many pints. When the pub closed, we all ended up at Murray’s place, and we continued to drink. We were pretty pissed, and they thought it would be hilarious to make me a profile on a dating website. I had forgotten all about it until your mother contacted me,” John explained.

“It must have been a surprise; a man doesn’t often get a proposal from a possible mother-in-law,” Sherlock said, hoping to move the conversation forward.

“Surprise is an understatement,” John replied, a faint blush reddening his cheeks as he looked down at his shoes.

“Was it long before you agreed?” Sherlock asked.

“A while,” John answered, clearly avoiding Sherlock’s gaze.

The wheels were actively turning in Sherlock’s mind. John seemed bashful, and he was obviously trying to bring the conversation to a halt by being as unresponsive as possible. There had to be something slightly shady behind John’s agreement to an arranged marriage. It couldn’t be that bad, or Mummy would have found out, but still unpleasant enough for him to look ashamed.

What made people blush as John was blushing at the moment? Not the vivid angry blush, nor the subtle almost timid creeping blush of attraction, but the betraying shameful blush; the one people tried to fight back, but that always ended up giving them away. What were people ashamed of? Usually, shame came when people felt they were breaking rules, when there was a discrepancy between what they were doing and what was considered normal. What rule was John breaking? What made him feel abnormal?

Maybe something about sexuality. People tended to make a terrible fuss when sexuality was involved, but it seemed inconceivable that a sexual matter was pushing John into an arranged marriage. Unless he was a sex addict and wanted an intercourse partner at his disposal. It was unlikely anyone would ever desire Mycroft sexually, but Sherlock recognised he was biased when the attractiveness of his brother was involved. However, he couldn’t rule out addiction. John was obviously not a drug addict; Sherlock would have recognised the signs right away at the train station. It couldn’t be an alcohol addiction; John had been very slightly tipsy after drinking a little more than half a bottle of wine. Perhaps it was money. Money was an immensely powerful motivator and Mycroft had plenty of it, therefore, it was a plausible hypothesis. Sherlock had to resist the urge to grimace at the thought; the idea of John marrying someone for the money was so mundane and uninspired, he refused to linger on the thought.

There was also the possibility that John was marrying Mycroft for reasons Sherlock hadn’t thought of. Many years of solving crimes had taught him that people could do exceptionally asinine things for very foolish reasons. As fascinating as John was right now, Sherlock couldn’t rule out the possibility that he was one of those uninspiring people. The mere thought made him cringe; he needed to collect more data, but John was being deliberately unhelpful. If the direct questions didn’t work, Sherlock would have to be even more aggressive in his interrogation methods. He also needed to burn the image of his mother browsing dating websites out of his brain.

“Why are you marrying my brother?” he finally asked, turning to look at John.

“It doesn’t matter,” John said.

“It matters to me! I don’t understand!” Sherlock exclaimed, surprised by his own outburst.

“Do you need to understand everything?” John asked, the hint of a playful smile on his lips.

“Yes. No. Only the interesting things,” Sherlock replied, and he was surprised to see John’s smile growing even wider.

Unfortunately, John refused to say more, and they remained silent all the way to the Serpentine Bar & Kitchen where they had a cup of tea while sitting under an enormous willow tree. The lilacs were in full bloom around them, and their sweet aroma filled the air, giving the moment a rather bucolic feeling that Sherlock would have found sickening if he had spent more than two seconds thinking about it. Instead, he was concentrating on John and on what he was saying, because for what felt like the first time in years, Sherlock was participating in a conversation for the sake of having a conversation. It was novel and stimulating to find out more about John by engaging in a sharing process instead of stripping him bare of his secrets, as he had done the night before, and as he did with everyone he met.

There was something enjoyable about the give and take of the conversation, but as much as he found it interesting to learn more about John, it wasn’t the source of the incredible rush he was getting. What was truly remarkable, Sherlock realised, was being the centre of John’s attention. John could not seem to know enough; he kept asking question after question about Sherlock’s life and his work, and Sherlock told him almost everything he wanted to know. Almost. But he wasn’t the only one talking; John wasn’t greedy of information, in fact, he was quite chatty as long as they stayed away from the topic of Mycroft and the wedding.

They took longer than necessary to finish their tea, due to the fact they had both been stalling in order to push back the moment they would have to leave. However, when they took their last sips, the liquid was so cold they both grimaced, trying their best to hide it in their cups. When they finally got up to resume their walk, the wind was blowing harder than before, and the smell of lilac followed them until they reached Round Pond. John never complained about his leg, he never asked Sherlock to slow down, and he never asked for a break; he just kept walking like the determined soldier he was. Their walk lasted a little over two hours, and when they reached the Lancaster fountain again, they knew a lot more about each other than they had in the beginning of the day. Sherlock’s mother had called five more times, but he had ignored every ring, unwilling to let anything spoil the pleasant day out he was having with his new acquaintance (or were they friends now?).

They walked to the Tesco Express on Baker Street where John bought everything he needed to cook them dinner. Sherlock was in charge of the trolley, and he followed John around the aisles with barely concealed amusement. John kept asking whether he had various ingredients, and everything Sherlock didn’t have went into the trolley. With every item John handed him, Sherlock’s eyes widened a little more. It was obvious what John was planning to prepare; the chicken, yogurt, and various spices spoke for themselves, but Sherlock was still excited to know he would eat his first homemade curry chicken. He was in such a pleasant mood that he picked up eighteen red apples for an experiment he planned on doing with maggots.

They almost had a row at the checkout. Sherlock believed it was his duty to pay since he was the host, while John argued that a thank-you meal had to be paid for by the person doing the thanking. Around them, people were resolutely not staring, and if some of them were giggling softly, it was caused by the highly amusing vegetables they had put in their trolleys, not because of the two men arguing like an old couple. In the end, Sherlock gave up, but he was rewarded by John’s pleased expression and another bright smile, one of the smiles that never failed to make him feel slightly warmer.

Once in Sherlock’s flat, John put the shopping away. Sherlock assured him there wasn’t a specific place for things, so he ended up putting what didn’t need to be refrigerated in the same cupboard. Meanwhile, Sherlock called his mother because he didn’t have a valid reason not to anymore. He dreaded the conversation, but he wanted to take it off his mind quickly. Apparently, his mother had been sitting beside the telephone, because she picked up after the first ring.

“What is this nonsense?” she answered without any form of greeting. Victoria Holmes had always been remarkably forthright.

“Mummy, there’s no need—”

“This is ridiculous! Is it part of your foolish rivalry? Is it a childish need to steal what is Mycroft’s? Or perhaps you want to make him miserable by ruining his wedding?

“No, I—”

“Whatever you have planned, it won’t work. John agreed to marry Mycroft, and that’s what will happen. He is a sensible match for your brother, and I will not let you get in the way.”

“I’m not—”

“Tomorrow morning at the latest,” she said, and she hung up before Sherlock could say what he had planned to say.

Now, his mother was convinced that he was deliberately trying to ruin Mycroft’s future happiness, which he wasn’t. Not really. He just needed to understand, and for that he needed time. According to past experiences, John was probably about to do something utterly dull that would disillusion him; in fact, it was surprising it hadn’t happened yet. He just wanted to keep John until he wasn’t fascinating anymore, he wasn’t asking for much.

“That sounded painful, who was it?” John asked, and for a second Sherlock was tempted to answer that the phone call had been from Mycroft, just so John would think his future husband had an awful temper. However, that would make Mummy right, so he resisted the urge; John would have plenty of occasions to discover how awful Mycroft actually was.

“My mother who thinks I’ve kidnapped you,” he answered.

John grimaced and gripped his cane tighter, obviously feeling awkward.

“You should have told me, I would have talked to her, let her know I’m the one who manipulated you into letting me stay,” he said, and Sherlock brushed him off with the wave of a hand.

“Trust me, if I didn’t want you to stay you’d be at home with my mother already,” Sherlock said, and he slumped down on the sofa with his laptop to read the news, hoping to see a crime he could bully Lestrade into letting him investigate. With John.

They had a very quiet afternoon. John spent a lot of time browsing through Sherlock’s bookcases, his expression alternating between curious, impressed, and disturbed. Sherlock’s book collection was very heterogeneous; old chemistry volumes frolicked with various textbooks, Bibles, dictionaries, travel books, and surprisingly, a couple of Victorian romance novels. When John giggled, Sherlock looked up from his computer.

“It was for a case,” he said, and John nodded knowingly, his smile not quite leaving his lips.

John finally chose a book about Jack the Ripper, and he settled in the same armchair he had sat in the night before. The book was interesting, but not nearly as engrossing as the margins filled with the notes Sherlock had scribbled in his very neat handwriting. It was a good thing John was so absorbed in his reading; he never noticed the increasingly longer looks Sherlock kept giving him. They talked occasionally, when John asked for some precisions about something Sherlock had written, but most of the time they didn’t, and it was comfortable that way. Most people couldn’t stand long silences, but apparently John didn’t mind them, which pleased Sherlock immensely; he appreciated a quiet atmosphere while he updated his website.

Sherlock was almost done with typing up the case of the missing jars when John got up and went to the kitchen. Sherlock could hear him moving things around, but it didn’t sound like the usual tea-making noises. Intrigued, he placed his laptop on the coffee table and made his way to the kitchen where John was rummaging through a cupboard. His purchases of the day were scattered among a petri dish field on the worktop, and he had taken out a cutting board, a knife, a saucepan, measuring cups, a skillet, and wooden spoons.

“Pancreas, mould, semen, peaches,” Sherlock said, which caused John to look up with a puzzled look on his face.

“What? Is this a riddle or are you just rubbish at kitchen conversation?” he asked.

“I used that knife to cut a pancreas, I put mould on that cutting board, semen in that measuring cup, and I boiled peaches in the saucepan.”

John grimaced as he picked up the measuring cup with two fingers and inspected it.

“Was it your semen?” he asked.

“Is that relevant?” Sherlock inquired.

“I suppose it’s not. But seriously, that’s…revolting. Except for the peaches, that’s surprisingly normal,” John said.

“They were rotten peaches,” Sherlock admitted, and John laughed.

“Let’s just ignore the fact that you use your kitchenware for your experiments, don’t you clean them afterwards?” John asked as he filled the sink with hot water and immersed the things Sherlock had used to experiment. Then, just in case, he also put the rest of the dishes he needed to use in the sink.

“From my point of view, you’re using my experiment equipment as kitchenware. These have never been used to cook before, at least not by me. I clean them when necessary,” Sherlock answered as he took a seat on one of the high kitchen chairs, and he pushed his microscope out of the way so he could rest his forearm on the table.

“Just out of curiosity, how often is it necessary?” John asked.

“Whenever Mrs Hudson yells at me,” Sherlock answered, and John chuckled as he started doing the washing-up.

“You’re a special kind of slob, aren’t you?”

That’s not something Sherlock thought he needed to dignify with an answer, so he didn’t, but he kept his eyes on John. He was standing very straight, his weight equally supported by his two legs, and his cane was resting on the closest cupboard door. Watching John in a kitchen was fascinating; he looked solid and reliable until he had to take a few steps and used the worktop for support. Yet, there was always something graceful about his movements. Sherlock was entranced by the way John pivoted on his good leg, the way he cut the chicken with medical precision, and the way his wrist twisted slightly when he manipulated the skillet’s handle. But it was nothing compared to the way he flicked his hip to close a drawer after putting back the corkscrew. Before long, there was a glass of white wine in front of Sherlock, and John was back in front of the hob, stirring the basmati rice.

It was impossible for Sherlock to watch John moving around the kitchen without picturing him doing the same at Mycroft’s. He gritted his teeth as he imagined John pouring Mycroft a glass of terribly expensive wine, chopping vegetables on a spotless worktop without any microscopes, pipettes, and chemicals cluttering it. Would Mycroft sit as Sherlock was sitting right now, or would he help? Would he make John laugh as Sherlock had done several times today? Mycroft would undoubtedly want to talk about his day at the office; would John even be interested in boring government work? Of course he wouldn’t, John was like Sherlock, he seemed like the kind of person who thrived on adrenalin, and the only kind of adrenalin Mycroft got on a regular basis came from opening his umbrella indoors.

Slowly, the many ingredients were turned into a delicious smelling curry chicken, and Sherlock got closer to the stove to peek at what John was stirring. He could smell the blend of spices, the tender chicken, and the soft hint of coconut milk; the whole dish smelled so heavenly, he couldn’t resist the temptation to dip his finger into it. John saw what Sherlock was about to do and immediately stopped him by grabbing his wrist.

“First, this is extremely unsanitary, especially now that I know you enjoy manipulating organs, mould, and semen. Second, you’ll burn yourself. Here, hang on,” he said as he picked up a wooden spoon, gathered a piece of chicken in it and handed it over to Sherlock.

Instead of picking up the spoon, Sherlock bent down to bite the chicken straight off it, and his eyes widened slightly as he swallowed. It was delicious, and he told John so, not only because it was the truth, but also because he genuinely enjoyed the light blush colouring John’s cheeks every time he was complimented.

Sherlock repeated the praise a few times while they ate, John turning just a little redder each time. For a moment, Sherlock wondered if he looked as pleased and smug every time John called him brilliant, but he quickly banished the thought; there was no way he would ever be caught in public with that expression on his face.

They both ate so much that they couldn’t imagine having even one bite of the pie baking in the oven (made with the apples Sherlock had picked out for his experiment), so they decided to save it for later tonight. John was about to start cleaning the table when Sherlock’s phone beeped to announce the arrival of a new text message.

_I’ve got a case for you. Smartarse kidnapped someone and is showing off on the Internet. You’ve bothered me enough; you’d better come at once._

Immediately, Sherlock’s face lit up, and he read the text to John whose eyes widened in surprise (and interest?). The case did sound enthralling, Sherlock loved killers who made skilful use of technology, it would hopefully take more than one night to solve, and if he played his cards right, John would accompany him and stay with him until the kidnapper was caught.

“Will you come?” Sherlock asked, hopeful.

“I don’t know, won’t I get in the way?” John answered, obviously intrigued.

“You won’t. A doctor’s opinion may be useful. Also, it could be dangerous….” Sherlock trailed off, and for a few seconds, there was a noticeable struggle on John’s traits.

“Alright, I’ll come,” he finally said, and Sherlock grinned as he put on his scarf, coat, and gloves. John did the same, and soon they both climbed into a cab heading to Scotland Yard.

:::


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The case was stolen from the movie Untraceable, and so was the computer speech.

When Sherlock and John entered Lestrade’s office, the DI wasn’t alone; he was with a man in his early thirties Sherlock had never seen before. He was wearing brown trousers, a thin slice of neon yellow underwear visible over the waistband, and an extremely tight white shirt with a plunging V-neck. Not the kind of person who was usually spotted in Scotland Yard, let alone Lestrade’s office. The DI looked up at Sherlock, and he frowned when he realised he wasn’t alone.

“Who’s he?” he asked.

“Doctor John Watson,” Sherlock answered before adding, “he’s with me.”

“What do you mean he’s with you? This isn’t a social event; you’re not allowed a guest!” Lestrade said.

“I said he’s with me,” Sherlock insisted, “are you going to be difficult or are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

For a moment, Lestrade seemed torn between the urge to push the issue and the need to brief Sherlock on the recent events. Finally, the latter won, and Lestrade sighed heavily.

“Oh, alright. Sherlock, this is Jim Moriarty; he works for the Police Central e-crime Unit. Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes, the man I told you about,” Lestrade said, and Jim smiled, extending a hand that Sherlock shook briefly.

“Sherlock Holmes! What a pleasure to finally meet you, I’ve heard so much about you!” Jim exclaimed, but Sherlock barely looked at him.

“Lestrade?” Sherlock asked with a raised eyebrow.

Looking weary, Lestrade turned his laptop around so Sherlock and John could get a good look at the website he and Jim had been watching before. The layout was terribly simple, just a black background with a video feed in the middle. On the top of the site, the name of the website was written in bright letters: Watch Me Kill. Under the video feed, there was a counter showing 532 active users. Even if the layout had been more elaborate, it wouldn’t have been enough to distract them from what was happening in the middle of the screen.

A gagged man was hanging upside down from the ceiling, struggling. They couldn’t see his hands, but from the way he was moving, it was obvious they were bound together and tied to something on the floor. He was somewhere dark, but some light came in from a single high window, which meant he was probably held in a basement.

“Is it real?” Sherlock asked, his eyes never leaving the computer screen.

“Unfortunately, it is,” Lestrade confirmed before looking at Jim, gesturing for him to continue.

“The website has been up for about two weeks now, it was brought to the PCeU’s attention because someone was killing animals and showing off online. He did it just like he’s doing it now: a cat or dog tied to the ceiling by its back paws, and to the floor by its front paws. There was also a counter and as soon as it reached a certain number, a higher one each time as he gathered followers, the animal was killed.”

“What does he do with them?” Sherlock asked.

“When enough people are watching, an arrow is fired from a crossbow aimed at the animal’s heart. Well, I say animal…. It was sickening enough when he was killing animals, but now it seems like he’s moved on to killing people,” Jim replied.

“Are you sure it’s streaming live?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes,” Jim said, “can you see the window right there?” he added, leaning over Sherlock’s shoulder to point at the screen. “We studied the light and weather pattern, and although we can’t be totally certain, we believe this house is, if not directly in London, very close to it.”

“Good to know your department isn’t completely incompetent. I assume you tried to shut the site down?” Sherlock curtly asked.

“Closing the site won’t work, the IP changes constantly, each new address is an exploited server that’s running a mirror of the site. The site’s name server uses a low TTL – that’s time to live – so the computer constantly queries the name server’s record. That’s how it gives you a new address,” Jim explained.

He seemed particularly smug. After spending so much time in the lowest floor of Scotland Yard and working with very few people, he now looked like a kid who got to show off his toys. Sherlock groaned, and he turned to look at John. The doctor looked puzzled; he probably hadn’t understood a word Jim had said.

“There are thousands of exploited servers on the Internet; he won’t run out anytime soon,” Sherlock said as an explanation, and John nodded.

“He’s accessing these machines so quickly, he’s got to be running his own botnet. We are blocking the IPs, but every time we shut one down, a new mirror pops up. It’s infuriating,” Jim said with a shy apologetic smile directed at Sherlock.

“Sherlock, I’ll need everything you can tell me from the video. We need to find that basement and stop him before that poor bastard dies,” Lestrade said, and Sherlock squinted at the screen, John doing the same beside him.

“There’s not much to tell. From the timbers, I’d say the house was built in the eighties.”

“Anything else?” Lestrade asked, and before Sherlock could answer, Sergeant Sally Donovan entered the room and everyone turned to look at her. Her cheeks were flushed as if she had been running, and she was clutching a cell phone in her right hand.

“Found out who he is,” she announced, and Lestrade immediately got up.

“Who?” he asked.

“Peter Howarth from London. He’s a bartender at Beduin, he was working on Saturday, off on Sunday, but he didn’t come in today. His wife claims he left for work at 15:30 for his shift beginning at 16:00, but according to his boss, he never arrived.”

Lestrade quickly got out of his office, ordering his team to start moving; they were to divide into two squads, the first one would go to Howarth’s house while the second one would visit the Beduin pub. There was a lot of activity while the policemen grabbed their things and got ready to leave, but soon enough only Sherlock, John, and Jim were left. Before leaving with everyone else, Lestrade looked through the doorway.

“Jim, back to your department. Sherlock, if you find that house, I may have to marry you,” the DI said as he hurried out of his office.

“That’s not an incentive,” Sherlock shouted after Lestrade, but he didn’t look back, and soon he was out of his sight, running after his team.

Jim, however, remained in the office, fidgeting slightly beside Sherlock. A few times, he looked as though he was about to talk, but he kept looking at Sherlock with his mouth agape. When he finally talked, it was in an almost quivering voice.

“So, we’re bound to run into each other again if you’re on the case. Sherlock Holmes on the case, that’s bad news for the bad guy, right?”

Sherlock didn’t answer; he just kept staring at the computer screen where the man was struggling against his restraints. Jim didn’t seem bothered by Sherlock’s silent treatment; he continued to watch Sherlock for another minute before finally making his way to the door.

“Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes,” he said before leaving.

“That was strange,” John said once Jim was out of sight.

“Yes, he was attracted to me,” Sherlock said distractedly, still deep in thoughts as he watched the man on the screen.

“He was?” John asked. “He had a disturbing way of showing it.”

“He slipped his phone number into my pocket when he leaned over me to watch the screen. A bold move, albeit not a very creative one,” he said as he got up to rummage through Lestrade’s drawers. Then, he turned to John, and he announced that they were leaving to do some research.

“What kind of research?” John asked.

“Lestrade’s team will interrogate the family and co-workers, so at least we won’t have to bother ourselves with tedious human interactions. We’ll list the possible routes he could’ve taken to work, and we’ll look for data. I’ll just need his address,” Sherlock said as he took his BlackBerry out of his pocket and started typing deftly.

“There,” he said as he showed John the screen of his phone; it was the 192.com website with Peter Howarth’s contact details.

“It’s about ten minutes away from here. I know it’s not ideal to look in the dark, but if there are signs of a struggle, I should be able to spot them. Come, John,” he said, and together they left Scotland Yard.

For the bigger part of the evening, they prowled the streets between Howarth’s house and the Beduin pub, looking for anything suspicious. Sherlock used a torch he had stolen (borrowed) from Lestrade’s office to light up the way. While they were looking, Sherlock remained acutely aware of John’s presence at his side. It was very different from what he was used to; not roaming the streets while looking for clues, he was used to that, what he wasn’t used to was someone beside him at whom he could talk (because let’s be honest, Sherlock did most of the talking). John always followed, even if they made several round trips to explore all the probable routes, he never complained about his leg, but the limp remained, albeit inconsistently.

Sherlock looked at _everything_. He searched the streets and looked for suspicious tyre marks, he looked for unnatural footprints in the sand, for grass ruffled in a particular pattern, or curious neighbours looking too enthusiastically out the window. All the while, John inquired about what they were looking for, and he tried his best to observe, sometimes pointing out things he thought Sherlock might want to take a closer look at. Sherlock was surprised to find that he was weirdly touched by John’s enthusiasm; of course everything he pointed out was irrelevant, but Sherlock always felt the urge to grin stupidly every time he heard John say, “Sherlock, have you seen this?”. Just because he knew it would make John light up with pride, Sherlock picked up a cigarette butt he knew had nothing to do with the case, but that John had shown him.

It was almost two in the morning when they got back to Sherlock’s flat. As soon as they were there, Sherlock grabbed his laptop and opened his Internet browser to check the Watch Me Kill website. Peter Howarth was still alive and as well as he could be. He was still hanging from the ceiling, his wrists and ankles were still bound, but he wasn’t struggling as much, he looked exhausted. Sherlock sat in his favourite chair, in his favourite thinking pose, with his laptop on his thighs. He needed to cogitate, to observe.

Sherlock was aware of John making tea in the kitchen, and of him carefully putting a steaming cup on the armrest of the leather chair. When John told him that he was staying on the sofa in case he needed his help, Sherlock brushed him off with a wave of his hand. For the following hour, he pictured the few pieces of the puzzle he had, shuffling them and trying to assemble them in different ways in hopes of deciphering something he hadn’t noticed before. On his laptop screen, Peter Howarth was trying to keep his head raised towards his chest, but his face was getting considerably redder, and he seemed on the verge of passing out. Yet, he was still alive. Under the video feed, the counter showed that the number of viewers had almost doubled.

When Sherlock emerged from his trance-like thinking state, he realised that John had fallen asleep on the sofa at some point. He looked peaceful, content, and Sherlock spent several minutes just looking at him, trying not to picture him asleep in Mycroft’s gargantuan bed. Moving carefully in order not to wake him up, Sherlock went to his bedroom, picked up his duvet, and covered John with it. John shifted in his sleep and murmured something that sounded a lot like ‘camel’, and Sherlock, smiling a little, resumed working on the case.

:::


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The case was stolen from the movie Untraceable.

The next morning, Sherlock made tea while hoping Mrs Hudson wouldn’t decide to come in. If she ever discovered he had the ability to make some, she would most likely stop making it for him. That would be unfortunate. Surprisingly, it wasn’t a hassle. He found himself _wanting_ to be able to offer tea when John woke up, which would happen soon, considering he had every intention of waking him in the following minutes. There was something they needed to discuss. Sherlock’s mother had given him an ultimatum; John was supposed to join Mummy that very morning, and once again, Sherlock found he wasn’t ready.

On that calm day where the flat was quiet and just beginning to be bathed in morning light, Sherlock wondered if he would ever be willing to let John go. They could work well together. While Sherlock had been compared to a wildfire or a hurricane, John was like a fire ant: small, unthreatening-looking, but strong and dangerous. A whole army within one small body; he was fascinating.

He was shaken out of his reverie when the water boiled. He poured it into two mugs, threw a teabag in each, and brought them to the sitting room where John was still fast asleep under Sherlock’s heavy duvet. After setting the mugs on the small table, he kneeled beside the sofa and watched John’s sleeping form. He looked very peaceful, and a ray of sunshine was hitting his face, making his hair look more golden than brown. It was ruffled, but it still looked soft, and without thinking about what he was doing, Sherlock stretched a hand until he could catch a lock between his index and middle finger. It was even softer than it looked, and he was considering running his whole hand through John’s hair when his phone beeped, announcing a new text from Mycroft. Well done brother, he thought, and he lowered his hand to gently shake John’s shoulder.

He woke up with a start, and it took him a few seconds before he realised where he was. He blinked several times, yawned, and stretched his sore back and shoulders before smiling at Sherlock.

“Morning,” he said groggily, and Sherlock smiled back, offering a cup of tea.

“Good morning John, I’m sorry I woke you up, but the sun is up and we need to talk,” Sherlock said as he grabbed his own mug and sat on the table beside the sofa, facing John. Remembering the text message from Mycroft, he checked his phone.

 _Is John still alive?_

 _Of course he is._

When John spotted the laptop on the coffee table beside Sherlock, he was reminded of the case and the poor man hanging from the ceiling somewhere in a London basement.

“How is he doing?” he asked, and Sherlock didn’t need to ask whom he was talking about.

“Still alive, but he fainted a few hours ago,” Sherlock answered, and John let out a sigh.

“At least he’s still alive, we have time to find him,” he said.

“That’s the plan, yes. But before we work on that, we need to discuss your involvement in the case,” Sherlock said, his voice solemn, before drinking a sip of tea. John’s face suddenly fell; he looked dejected, a big contrast with the way he had looked a few seconds before.

“I was in your way yesterday, wasn’t I?” John said in a voice that sounded a little off.

“John! No! Having you with me yesterday was…it was good, very good,” Sherlock answered while fidgeting a little on the table. “However, my mother expects you before lunch.”

“Oh,” was John’s only answer, and he looked down at his mug.

“Do you want to go to my mother’s house?” Sherlock asked, and it was John’s turn to fidget, twisting the duvet in his fist in the process.

“I don’t mean to sound ungrateful; your mother is very kind to offer one of her spare rooms, but since Mycroft is away until Sunday morning…. Perhaps, if you don’t mind…err, maybe I could stay here and help you. You know, in case you need a doctor,” John said, stuttering every few words.

It was a strangely endearing sight; John’s cheeks were flushed, and so were his ears. He was also licking his bottom lip even more than usual. Sherlock had to bite the inside of his cheeks to keep his smile from expanding up to his own ears; John wanted to stay with him! That plus a possible murderer meant his day was bound to be interesting.

“I would like you to stay. I appreciated your help yesterday, and that’s exactly what I’ll tell Mycroft,” he said as he started texting.

 _I have a case. John’s help is required; therefore, his arrival at Mummy’s house will be delayed._

 _Do I need to remind you that John is supposed to marry me?_

 _He’s a doctor, he’s useful, and I need him. Tell Mummy to stop ringing; John won’t be back before we’re done with the case._

 _Has it crossed your mind that perhaps John isn’t interested in playing the role of your assistant?_

 _He asked to stay_ , Sherlock wrote, knowing full well that it would annoy his brother.

He was right; Mycroft didn’t answer, and Sherlock found the rush of superiority extremely rewarding. The feeling was familiar, he recognised it from all the other times he had had the upper hand on his brother. However, he didn’t have time to dwell on thoughts of Mycroft, there was a man being held against his will somewhere in London, and something had to be done about that.

Some movement on the laptop’s screen interrupted Sherlock’s thoughts. From behind the camera, a very long arrow was shot, and it went straight into Peter Howarth’s heart. John let out a shivering sigh, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the blood slowly saturating the dead man’s shirt. Soon, a new message appeared under the live feed, sliding across the screen in large letters.

 _Did you enjoy the show, Sherlock Holmes?_

John’s eyes widened, and he looked at Sherlock expectantly, hoping to get an explanation. An explanation that didn’t come. Sherlock was just as puzzled as John was, and he frantically searched through his inner hard-drive, trying to list all the people he knew who could have potentially done this. For the first time in his life, he didn’t feel the faintest hint of amusement when he thought about his list of enemies, just annoyance. Why were there so many of them? His mental list-making activities were interrupted by a text from Lestrade.

 _We need to talk._

 _On our way_ , Sherlock answered before dragging John off the sofa and away from his comfortable spot under the extraordinarily warm duvet. They didn’t take time to change their clothes, shower, or have breakfast; there was a case on, someone had just been murdered, and the killer was reaching out to Sherlock. The game was on.

:::

They spent most of the day in Lestrade’s office. At first, the DI just yelled at Sherlock, demanding he shared the information he was obviously holding back. For John, it felt like watching a tennis set, the two men were bouncing insults, passive-aggressive comments, and a little bit of useful information off each other with the ease of two players who have been volleying together for years. Eventually, John had to put his foot down and ask them to settle down, because as entertaining as it was to watch them bicker, there was still a murderer to catch. A murdered who was bound to continue, since his first attempt on a human had been a success (from his point of view).

The video feed was gone from the website, the only thing left was the scrolling message inquiring about Sherlock’s amazement at the whole ordeal. The message was both a blessing and a curse; it had largely reduced the number of potential suspects, bringing it from anyone in Britain to someone who knew Sherlock. Unfortunately, it looked as though everyone who had been watching the Watch Me Kill website (and apparently, there had been a lot of people watching) had Googled Sherlock’s name, found his website, and discovered his forum.

Sherlock’s phone was now beeping at least once every minute. As tempting as it was to just turn the sound off, Lestrade insisted on reading through every single one of the messages in case there was a useful clue in one of them. Also, they couldn’t ignore the possibility that the man Lestrade called the Internet Killer would try to contact Sherlock personally. There were over a hundred new messages on Sherlock’s forum, and John offered to look through them while Sherlock and Lestrade examined the enlarged photos of the basement in which Peter Howarth had been detained.

John’s task took all morning. He worked as fast as he could, considering he was using an unfamiliar keyboard (Sally Donovan’s). He meticulously noted IPs and dubious messages, but new messages kept popping up, which considerably slowed down the process. From Sherlock’s point of view, it was all terribly distracting. Every time he looked up from the pictures, he got an eyeful of John licking his lips, or with his tongue poking out slightly. Sherlock had never seen such an unsettling organ in his entire life, and he had seen his fair share of organs. Had he been a less rational man, he would have suspected that John’s tongue was taunting him, enticing him.

Several hours later, Sherlock and Lestrade had concluded there was absolutely nothing useful they could use to track the Internet Killer. John had made a list of suspicious IP addresses, which had been faxed to PCeU so Jim could pursue the investigation; his department was much better equipped to do so. New messages were still being posted on the forum, but the flow had decreased now that the scrolling message had been up for a while. John continued to read them, but the task wasn’t as difficult as it had been earlier.

Sherlock, at Lestrade’s insistence, had made a list of everyone who had a reason to hate him. Unfortunately for Lestrade and his team who would have the pleasure of looking into the background of each and every one, the list was four pages long. Curious, John looked over Sherlock’s shoulder, and he spotted a name he had recently become acquainted with.

“Sherlock? Why is your brother’s name on that list?”

“Because Lestrade said I needed to write the name of everyone who had a reason to hate me. Whether that reason was good or not,” Sherlock answered matter-of-factly.

“Why does he hate you?” John asked.

“I’m afraid that list would be another four pages long and would take no less than an hour to make. Considering your stomach has been rumbling for the last forty-five minutes, and there is nothing else we can do while Scotland Yard’s finest do their work, why don’t I take you home?”

John agreed and got his coat, more than ready to leave, but Lestrade wouldn’t let them get out of his office until he cleared something up with Sherlock.

“This is not a game, Sherlock! Do we really need to look into your brother’s background? Because there’s a man killing people, and I would hate to lose precious time on unnecessary investigations!” Lestrade said, never raising his voice, but managing to sound threatening nonetheless.

“Alright,” Sherlock murmured, and he took his list back from Lestrade’s hands. Picking up a pen, he crossed out Mycroft’s name.

“It doesn’t mean he doesn’t have any reason to hate me, but my brother is cleverer than any investigator you will put on the case. No one will ever find out anything about him, and since his current presence in Côte d’Ivoire makes it unlikely he’s the one killing people in London, I think your team’s time could be best used otherwise,” Sherlock said, and he turned to leave, but Lestrade stopped him again.

“Wait, who’s your brother? What does he do?”

“He’s the most dangerous man you could ever meet. Now come along John,” Sherlock said before stepping out of Lestrade’s office, John following in smaller, but eager strides.

:::

Back in Sherlock’s flat, John practically threw himself at the leftover curry chicken he had made the day before. He was about to take out a second plate, but Sherlock stopped him.

“Digestion slows me down, I rarely eat while on a case,” he said while shaking his head.

“That’s insane!” John exclaimed. “And completely unhealthy!”

“My body doesn’t need much,” Sherlock replied as he picked up his laptop to check on the macabre website. There was nothing new, just the familiar black background and the redundant message taunting him.

“You sure you don’t want some? I always find it’s better the next day,” John said before biting into another chicken piece.

Sherlock was about to refuse for the second time when John let out an exceptionally satisfied, almost obscene moan as he closed his eyes and swallowed. When he threw his head back, sunlight hit his throat and highlighted his Adam’s apple in such a way that Sherlock felt the urge to lick the tempting protrusion. And maybe suck a little bit. Nibble, too.

“Come on Sherlock, even if your body doesn’t need it, I’m sure it would appreciate it,” John said, his eyes twinkling with mischief as he offered Sherlock his fork.

Even if he had spent hours thinking about his phrasing, John couldn’t have come up with worse words; Sherlock’s body didn’t _need_ it, but it sure wanted it. When Sherlock made no move to grab the offered fork, John shrugged and brought it to his own mouth, closing his eyes and sighing as if he had never tasted anything better. Perhaps if he had had the ability to move, Sherlock would’ve given in and taken a bite, but he felt paralysed.

He knew John was taunting him and mocking his eating habits. Still, he couldn’t help the rush of blood to his groin when he imagined what it would be like to be the one making John moan and sigh like that. He frowned at his delinquent thoughts; his libido was generally quite tame, but when he had a case, it was non-existent. That was unusual: wanting to climb on the table, grab a fistful of John’s hair, and kiss him until he forgot all about his chicken. The desire to drag John into his bedroom, to undress him, lick him, kiss him, and bite him, not only to study the sounds he would make, but to pleasure him relentlessly, that was new. Oh, he was in trouble, wasn’t he? But he wanted the trouble if it meant he could have John. Not only in his bed, but everywhere, in every single facet of his life.

“Sherlock!” John said, startling him. He had spoken loudly enough to suggest it wasn’t the first time he had tried catching the detective’s attention.

“What?” Sherlock asked, trying his best to sound annoyed, irritated, frustrated…anything other than aroused.

“I’m going up for a quick shower, do you need the bathroom first?”

Sherlock shook his head, and he watched John as he got out of the kitchen and climbed the steps leading to the bathroom. It wasn’t long before Sherlock heard the water running upstairs, and, sighing, he went to the sitting room to see whether there had been any changes on the website. When he hit refresh, the familiar black background appeared, but with a video feed positioned in the centre of the screen. Sherlock was surprised; he had thought he would have had more time before the next victim. However, the situation was different; there was no counter, and instead of a struggling man hanging from the ceiling, he was watching a building. Sherlock’s eyes widened in shock when he realised he was watching the façade of 221 Baker Street. Unplugging his computer, he brought it with him to the window. The video was live; he could see his silhouette in the window of 221B. The camera was clearly lower than he was, so not in a window of the opposite building. A car, then? He looked out the window again, but couldn’t locate the camera.

“John?” he cried, but got no response, so he tried again, louder.

“JOHN! Hurry up, we’re being watched!” he shouted, and he heard John shouting something back, but he couldn’t make out what he was saying.

He decided not to wait; this was too urgent to wait. He threw his computer onto the sofa and hurried outside to look for the camera.

:::

Inside the flat, John was coming out of the bathroom dressed only in his jeans and a t-shirt. He had heard Sherlock calling after him, had gotten out of the shower as quickly as possible, and had hurriedly put on clothes in case Sherlock had managed to get himself into trouble in the short time John had been in the shower.

“Sherlock?” John shouted as he limped down the stairs, his wet hair dripping onto his white shirt.

There was no trace of Sherlock in the kitchen, no trace of him in the sitting room, but John spotted the discarded laptop on the sofa, and he picked it up to see what website was opened. The building on the video feed seemed extremely familiar, but he only recognised it when he saw the tall, lanky man dressed in a suit standing in the street. Baker Street. _Sherlock_!

Immediately in combat mode, John ran up the stairs and picked up his service gun that he had hidden at the bottom of his suitcase, buried under all his clothes. He tucked the gun into the back of his jeans and hurried outside, shouting at Sherlock to “come back inside you idiot!” Sherlock turned around to look at John, who grabbed both his arms and looked at him, trying to determine whether he was hurt.

“I’m fine John, but the killer was here, there’s a camera on top of that car,” Sherlock said, pointing at the car in question.

John looked around, trying to see if the man who had put the camera there was still around, but he was distracted by the abundance of passers-by on the pavement. Then, a suspicious movement caught his eye; a man looked back, his eyes fixed on where John and Sherlock were standing, before turning around and disappearing in an alley.

“This way,” John said, and he started running towards the alley, Sherlock following.

It was thrilling. The rush of adrenalin wasn’t like anything he had experienced since he had been invalided home. He felt like the protagonist in a movie; running after a suspect, watching him disappear when he turned a corner, but always following not too far behind. He could hear his heart pounding, feel his lungs expanding, and his feet hitting the pavement in rhythmic thumps. The wind hitting his face was making him giddy with excitement, and Sherlock’s presence at his side rendered him invincible, unstoppable. It was incredible.

John and Sherlock chased the other man for what felt like hours before he disappeared into a black car. Then, Sherlock took the lead, and they zigzagged from one alley to another, using restaurants as shortcuts, climbing emergency staircases, and running across rooftops. Sherlock apparently had a map of London embedded into his brain; he knew which one-ways would slow down the black car, and which traffic lights would stop it completely. They managed to keep up for a while, sometimes catching a glimpse of the car around a corner, but eventually the vehicle ignored a red light, and they lost track of it.

Panting, John leaned against the closest brick wall and took several deep breaths that turned into giggles, and then into fits of genuine laughter. At first, Sherlock looked at him curiously, but he joined in, and soon enough they were leaning slightly towards each other, Sherlock’s right arm pressed against John’s left one. When he had enough breath to speak, John turned his head to look at Sherlock.

“That was ridiculous. The most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.”

“You live a much too quiet life,” Sherlock answered, also turning to look at John with a bright smile illuminating his features.

Sherlock was right, his life _was_ too quiet, and he was doing nothing to change that by marrying Mycroft Holmes. A long, quiet, and mundane life, that’s what awaited him, but he needed quiet, didn’t he? He had lived a more exciting life before, but that had only led to trouble, a bullet in his shoulder, some more trouble, and a heavy burden he could never forget for very long.

He had almost howled with laughter when he had read Mrs Holmes’ email, but after months of polite conversations (first by email, then on the phone), he had been forced to admit that the idea of an arranged marriage between himself and Mycroft Holmes had a lot of advantages. Other than it being an excuse to get away from Harry’s tiny flat, it was a way to put a very unpleasant part of his past behind. Also, the companionship, someone to share stories with at the end of the day, to prepare meals with, to laugh with, someone to fill the other cold half of the bed, those were all non-negligible bonuses.

Sherlock poking him violently in the ribs shook him out of his reverie.

“Ow! What was that for?” John asked.

“To bring you back to earth. Now hurry, I’ll race you to my flat, we need to check that car,” Sherlock said before winking at John and running off.

John laughed and ran after him, the chilly April wind cooling the sweat on his forehead. He followed as Sherlock twisted and turned in what seemed like random patterns. When they were back in Baker Street, the camera was still on top of the mysterious car. Sherlock grabbed it and unplugged it, but he put it back so it could be analysed by Jim or someone from his department.

“Do you know whose car it is?” John asked.

“I have a theory,” Sherlock answered as he picked the lock of the boot.

Inside was the body of Peter Howarth. Sherlock was smiling like a kid on Christmas morning, and he clasped his hands together, looking at the body with obvious enthusiasm. He announced that he wanted to have a look before texting Lestrade, and he ordered John to follow him inside so he could hide his gun while Sherlock got his tools. When John came down from the spare bedroom, Sherlock was waiting for him in the sitting room, twirling his cane around like a baton.

John stared, his mouth agape. He hadn’t been bothered by his leg since he had seen Sherlock outside the building on the ‘Watch Me Kill’ website.

:::


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The case was stolen from the movie Untraceable. There's also a small wink to American Psycho and Dexter fans in there. Obviously, I don't own that either.

On a normal day, the kitchen of 221B Baker Street looked like a fusion between a kitchen and a laboratory. On that night, the kitchen was barely visible under all the lab equipment Sherlock had managed to scatter on every surface. Lestrade’s team had left an hour before with Peter Howarth’s body, but Sherlock had had time to collect every bit of blood, fibre, hair, saliva, nail, and skin sample he needed. He was currently having the time of his life examining every piece of potential evidence closely, trying to find something – anything – that would lead them to the killer. John was sitting on a chair, watching Sherlock work with tired eyes, his head heavy on his forearm resting on the small table beside three beakers, a petri dish, and a couple of chopsticks.

Sherlock was aware that he was showing off a highly competent side of himself. Yes, he was doing the same thing Anderson would eventually do, but not only was he was doing it in a kitchen, he was also doing it quicker and better. John wasn’t watching, though, and that was unacceptable; it wasn’t everyday Sherlock had the opportunity to demonstrate how adept he was at things other than deductions, and John shouldn’t have missed any second of it. But John was exhausted, and it was a matter of minutes before he fell asleep at the table. Sherlock was tempted to shake his shoulder and suggest he went to bed, but he was almost done with the tox screen, and he wanted John to be there to hear the results.

“John?” he whispered when the test was done, but John didn’t move.

“John!” he repeated louder as he delicately put his hand on John’s arm.

With a groan, John opened his eyes and looked up at Sherlock with heavy, drooping eyelids.

“Did you really let me fall asleep in this position?” he asked, frowning.

“I have the blood test results,” Sherlock said, ignoring the question.

Suddenly, John was awake. He straightened up, ran a hand through his hair, and Sherlock waited until he had his full attention to show him what he had learned.

“I discovered traces of etorphine hydrochloride in his blood. I’m not surprised by his use of a sedative; we didn’t find any trace of struggle in our search yesterday night. Etorphine hydrochloride – or M99 – works so fast Howarth probably didn’t have time to struggle. Are you familiar with that particular sedative John?”

“Not really, no. I’ve heard of it, of course,” John said, and Sherlock could practically see the wheels slowly turning in the other man’s head. Sherlock willed John to reach the same conclusions, as parents will their child to talk. John hadn’t disappointed him yet, and he didn’t want it to happen now.

“Isn’t it used on animals?” John finally asked, and Sherlock nodded encouragingly.

“An animal sedative, that means only veterinarians can access it legally,” John said, his smile widening.

“Veterinarians, animal control, or circus workers, yes,” Sherlock confirmed, and John thought for a moment.

“So we’re looking for someone who has access to that drug, it should considerably shorten our list of suspects,” John said, sounding thrilled.

Sherlock wanted to kiss him. John had once again proved he was brilliant. Not as brilliant as Sherlock, very few were, but intelligent and perfectly capable of solving puzzles alone.

“You’re right John, the proverbial haystack has gotten considerably smaller,” Sherlock said as he texted Lestrade to tell him his team had to start searching in a new direction.

“You should go to bed, we may have a big day tomorrow, depending on Lestrade’s team’s ability to do proper research,” Sherlock said.

“Not if you need my help. Do you need my help?” John asked, and Sherlock wished there was something to do, anything.

“Nothing we can do until morning, get some sleep and I’ll wake you up if something happens,” Sherlock said.

“Aren’t you going to sleep?” John asked.

“Maybe.”

“Goodnight, then,” John said, and he got up the stairs to the room that was his for the time being.

It was pleasant to see him walking without limping. Sherlock didn’t know how long it would last, but he was ready to come up with other ways to get rid of the psychosomatic injury if it ever reappeared in the future. Except he wouldn’t be the one dealing with it by then, he thought as he slumped down on the sofa. He busied himself with the case for a while, but the chase across the city had been tiring, the part of the duvet his face was pressed against smelled like John, and he was quite comfortable, so it wasn’t too long before he fell asleep.

:::

When Sherlock woke up, sunlight was flooding the flat; from the look of the light, it was somewhere between seven and eight in the morning. There was an unusual noise coming from the kitchen, someone was handling the kettle and whistling a song he didn’t recognise. John was awake, then, and he sounded quite cheerful. Sherlock was surprised he had slept so late; he usually didn’t enjoy lazy mornings when he had a case. He blamed it on the duvet and its enticing aroma, which was unfortunately gone by then, and he got up to check his phone. Once he confirmed that he didn’t have any messages or missed calls, he made his way to the kitchen to see what John was up to.

There were two empty mugs on the worktop, two slices of bread in the toaster, and John was leaning against the fridge while waiting for the water to boil or the toast to be ready; whichever would come first. He was still in his sleeping attire (old grey sweatpants with a white cotton undershirt), his feet were bare, and his hair was tousled; he looked like someone who belonged right here, in 221B Baker Street. For a moment, Sherlock felt the pang of envy when he pictured John in Mycroft’s too large kitchen, followed by a rush of anger directed at his brother who probably wouldn’t be able to appreciate how unique and engaging John was. However, it all went away when John turned around, spotted him, and flashed him a wide smile that turned into soft laughter.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a suit so ruffled,” he said, and Sherlock laughed with him because it felt good, and because his suit _did_ look awful.

After a cup of tea and a piece of toast that John practically had to force down his throat, saying he hadn’t eaten in over twenty-four hours and that he was being ridiculous, Sherlock had a quick shower. He changed into a pair of ironed trousers and a clean, blood coloured shirt. John was in the armchair of the sitting room when Sherlock came back down.

“That’s a good colour on you,” John said, and Sherlock felt himself flush slightly, but his skin was still red from the heat of the shower, so he was quite certain John couldn’t notice.

It was John’s turn to use the bathroom and get dressed, and while he was away, Sherlock received a text message from Lestrade.

_Another victim._

_On our way.  
_  
Sherlock bellowed for John to come down, and when he did, he still had shaving cream under his chin. With a smile pulling at one corner of his mouth, Sherlock got closer until he was standing well into John’s personal space. John looked up as Sherlock used one of his long index fingers to slowly, deliberately remove the excess cream. Before John could form a protest, Sherlock had disappeared into the kitchen to wipe his finger on a tea towel. Less than a minute later, they were catching a cab and heading to Scotland Yard.

When Sherlock and John arrived, Lestrade was speaking animatedly to Jim from PCeU. The DI’s computer was open on the desk, and the web browser showed the Internet Killer’s website. Sherlock ignored the two men in the office, and he sat on the other side of the desk, gesturing for John to take the seat beside him. Then, he turned the computer around so they could watch what was happening on screen.

The live feed was back, and a man was tied up by his ankles and hanging from the ceiling, with his hands tied to the floor. He looked distressed, but not as much as Peter Howarth had looked in the early stages of his kidnapping.

Eventually, Lestrade and Jim were done talking, and they turned to greet the two men who had arrived a few minutes earlier. The DI looked exhausted, but his voice was still warm, and Jim couldn’t seem to stop shooting not so subtle reverent gazes at Sherlock. They barely had time to greet Sherlock and John before Sally walked in. She said hello to her boss and Jim before turning to the pair of men sitting in front of the laptop.

“Hello Freak. Hello Freak’s…fan,” she said as a way of introduction.

John frowned and looked up to offer a forced smile, but Sherlock ignored her and continued to study Lestrade’s laptop, hoping to see something that hadn’t been there before. It didn’t look promising.

“Donovan, do you have any leads?” Lestrade asked.

“That’s why I was coming in, actually. We managed to track down everyone on the M99 authorized buyers list, except one Patrick Bateman.”

“Track him down, we need him. Anything else?”

“No sir,” she answered before leaving Lestrade’s office.

Sherlock was animatedly discussing Patrick Bateman with Lestrade, but John wasn’t paying attention anymore. He had his eyes fixed on the screen, as if hypnotised. It wasn’t long before Sherlock noticed, and he stopped listening to what the DI was saying to give his full attention to what John was doing. His lips were moving, his brows were furrowed; Sherlock had never seen him in such a state of concentration.

“Did you see something?” Sherlock asked.

“Can you zoom in on the eyes?” John asked, and Sherlock hit the CTRL and + keys on the keyboard until they had a better view of the man’s face.

His eyes never leaving the screen, John asked for a pen and a piece of paper, and, when Sherlock provided them, he seized them and started muttering unintelligibly.

“John, what is it?” Sherlock asked.

“Morse code. Right eye dots, left eye dashes,” he said, and he started writing, his eyes never leaving the screen.

Sherlock could see the man on the screen blinking feverishly, his left eye remaining closed significantly longer than the right one. To the untrained eye, it looked as though he was twisting in pain, but John had seen under the surface, he had spotted what Sherlock probably wouldn’t have recognised. For the next minutes, John kept muttering to himself while scribbling on the piece of paper, often crossing out a letter and replacing it with another one.

Sherlock watched, almost transfixed. He was utterly fascinated by the sight of that man who had looked so terribly ordinary only three days ago. Was it only three days? It felt much longer. So much had changed since he had first laid eyes on John at the train station, it felt as if his whole brain chemistry had been altered; he could barely think anymore. Usually, the cases occupied his whole mind; it was effortless, and everything disappeared to make way for the puzzle at hand. Now, obviously, there was the case at the front of his mind, but there was always a part of his brain thinking about John; about what he was doing, what he looked like, what he was thinking, and what to do to convince him that Mycroft wasn’t the best Holmes brother for him.

“It’s an address,” John said, and he handed the piece of paper to Sherlock.

Sirens blaring, Lestrade’s team drove off in the direction of the address, Sherlock and John following in a cab not too far behind. They were at least thirty minutes away, so Sherlock decided to use that time on something worthy: watching John. However, it wasn’t long before John noticed and turned to look at Sherlock with quizzical brows.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing is wrong,” Sherlock replied, and he paused before adding, “what you did in Lestrade’s office, that was good.”

“Part of military training,” John said, shrugging, before turning his attention back to the window, making it easier for Sherlock to observe him.

John was stressed, that was obvious. He kept tapping his fingers on his left knee, and he was licking his lips even more often than usual. He was so transparent, his emotions worn on his sleeve for the world to see. It should have been annoying; it was a flaw, a sign of weakness, but Sherlock was surprised to find that it only entranced him further.

When they arrived at the house, Sherlock immediately noticed that the year of construction seemed to fit. He and John dashed out of the cab, but were stopped by Lestrade who was briefing his team and sending them inside. He forbade them to enter the house until it had been secured, so Sherlock had a look around the lawn. There was a particularly flattened patch of grass in front of the house, and Sherlock recognised it as a sign of struggle; the man had been conscious when he had arrived, which explained why he had seen the address.

Sherlock waited nearly five minutes before disregarding the DI’s orders and entering the house, but that was only because there were things he needed to examine outside the house. John followed with a sigh and a roll of his eyes. The house was already swarming with Scotland Yard officers who were looking through doors, securing rooms, and making their way downstairs where, if they could trust the video feed, the murderer was. They immediately found the stairs, and they made their way down to the basement.

They were too late. The man was dead, and the murderer – whoever he was – had left the house. The dead man was still hanging from the ceiling, an arrow piercing his chest, and blood slowly dripping onto the floor. Sherlock didn’t waste any time, he pulled two pairs of latex gloves out of his pocket, handed one over to John, and got closer to the dead body. Anderson was on his way, so Sherlock had very little undisturbed time ahead of him, but he intended on taking advantage of every minute. With John’s help, he observed the dead man’s body, collected blood, saliva, skin, and hair samples, and dirt from under the nails to analyse later.

When Anderson arrived, they left him alone with the dead body, and Sherlock started exploring the crime scene. Evidence bags, tweezers, and a small magnifying glass came out of his suit pockets as naturally as if they were handkerchiefs. The basement was so large and was filled with so many things Sherlock wanted to examine more closely, he eventually ran out of pocket space, and he had to use John’s. However, John was rather reluctant to having what he described as gross stuff shoved down his coat pockets, so Sherlock had to be ingenious and act quickly when John was distracted. Before he knew it, John had three dead bugs, two different types of mould, and a bag filled with damp soil in his coat pockets. When Sherlock tried to sneak what looked like ashes down his back jean pocket, John really had to put his foot down, and he grabbed Sherlock’s right wrist.

“Don’t even think about putting that in there!” he said threateningly, but with playful sparks in his eyes.

Sherlock tossed the evidence bag in the air, caught it with his left hand, and successfully managed to shove it down John’s other back pocket. John’s clear laugh echoed through the basement, soon joined in by Sherlock’s deeper one. The policemen turned around to look at them, their disapproval clearly visible.

“Gentlemen, this is a crime scene for Christ’s sake!” Lestrade bellowed from across the room.

John apologised, and their laughter dissolved into quiet giggles while they continued to look for anything that could lead them to the Internet Killer.

:::

Later, back in his flat, Sherlock’s eyes were glued to his microscope. He was observing the mould he had collected earlier in the basement. The killer had obviously planted false evidence; everything Sherlock had collected came from a different part of London, and nothing could help him identify the person who had killed the two men. Meanwhile, John had ordered too much Chinese food for one person, and he occasionally tried to tempt Sherlock with pieces of delicious smelling pork that he refused every time, but not without a smile that only his microscope could see.

“Do you think he’ll do it again?” John asked.

“Of course he will,” Sherlock answered matter-of-factly.

“Why are you so sure? He can’t go back to that house.”

“I know because he’s brilliant. He’s doing this for me, he’s showing off, and he’s good at what he does. I don’t expect he’ll stop until I stop him, or until he achieves his goal,” Sherlock said, not looking up from his microscope.

John didn’t speak right away; he looked at Sherlock with disbelieving eyes until he couldn’t remain silent anymore.

“Well, that’s nice. I hope you two will be happy together.”

John’s voice was chilling, there was nothing left of the playfulness Sherlock had heard when John had tried to feed him some pork. He sounded angry, maybe even a little hurt. Sherlock finally looked up.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Two people have died, Sherlock! Do you care about that at all, or are you just interested in the killer’s ‘brilliant mind’,” John asked, marking his last words with angry air quotes.

“Caring about them won’t save them,” Sherlock said, slightly confused as to why John sounded so angry with him. Surely he didn’t care that much about the victims; he had never met them!

“Not directly no,” John said and he sounded more riled up with every word he spoke, “but caring drives you forward, it’s a motivation. Caring is human! Have you got no heart?”

So this was what it was all about. John was faced with an aspect of Sherlock’s personality that he didn’t like, and he was either mad at Sherlock for being a cold heartless bastard, or at himself for not noticing it earlier. Sherlock didn’t want John to be angry with him; he needed John to realise that not caring for the victims didn’t make him any less of a genius. In an attempt to make things right, he tried explaining.

“Don’t you see John? I concentrate only on the cases, on the puzzles, that’s how my mind works.”

“The human lives involved, you don’t care about them at all?” John asked.

“No, I don’t” Sherlock replied, glad that John finally seemed to understand what he was saying.

But apparently, John didn’t understand, and Sherlock was surprised when the smaller man got up from the chair he had been sitting on, grabbed his coat, and took a few steps towards the door.

“Where are you going?” Sherlock asked, confused.

“Out. I need some air, I can’t be with you,” John answered, and he left, closing the door with more force than was necessary.

For long minutes afterwards, Sherlock looked at the closed door. John was gone; he had left him. It wasn’t surprising; he wasn’t the first person to storm out of Sherlock’s life, nor was he the first one to call him heartless. The sinking heaviness in his stomach, the feeling that he would never be able to breathe properly, that was new. He had been doing so well, John had liked the case, he had been helpful and proud of himself, he had run for the first time in months, he had cooked for Sherlock, and had repeatedly called him brilliant. He had had fun, Sherlock was sure of that, they had laughed together so often, even at a crime scene, hadn’t that meant something special for John too?

Sherlock shook his head and tried to focus his attention back on his microscope. It was over now; there was no use wasting precious brainpower on John. After all, their story had been doomed from the start; John was marrying Mycroft, the only thing he had seen in Sherlock was a somewhat eccentric brother-in-law, an addition to his family. He had probably viewed him as someone who would come over for dinner, and would pretend not to notice the two hosts had a quickie before his arrival. Well, John was mistaken; Sherlock would _never_ come over for dinner. It was better this way, he would see John at the wedding, and then never again, it was obviously the less painful solution.

Now, he needed to convince his body that it wasn’t hurting.

:::

Two men were waiting for John when he got out of 221 Baker Street. One who was vaguely familiar, and the other he had seen twice before in Lestrade’s office. Frowning, he looked at the familiar face of Jim Moriarty from PCeU.

“Hello,” John said, surprised to see him there.

“Doctor John Watson. Good to see you again,” Jim said, and before John could react, he felt the sting of a needle entering his neck. Then, everything went black.

:::


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The case was stolen from the movie Untraceable.

The first thing John noticed was the dampness surrounding him, invading his nose, mouth, and every single pore of his body. It didn’t feel as though he was breathing air, but liquid gathered in a particularly nasty pond. Then, he became aware of the position he was in: he was lying on something solid, his ankles and wrists were tied with cable-tie, and a thick rope bound his torso to the thing he was lying on. His heart was beating extremely fast, his breathing was laboured, and he could feel panic creeping close, latching at his brain and trying to engulf him.

He tried to remember his military training. One of his superiors had joked, saying there were as many kidnapping opportunities as there were sunburns in Afghanistan. He had only meant it as an incentive to remember what to do if they found themselves in that situation, but it had worked; if John had been lucky enough to get sunburns only, he still remembered what to do. The first step was to thwart the abduction and, well, it was a little late for that, wasn’t it? He pushed aside the feeling of shame; he didn’t have time for that.

He couldn’t linger on that feeling, he needed to remain calm. Sure, he was in a delicate situation, but he needed to stay positive; escape was still an option as long as he remained calm. For the next minutes, he concentrated on taking deep, slow breaths through his nose, exhaling through his mouth. He pictured himself being somewhere peaceful, in the last place he had felt at ease: Sherlock’s flat. Still breathing slowly, he closed his eyes, and the hard table he was lying on disappeared, replaced by the comfortable leather sofa in 221B Baker Street. He didn’t know where the image came from, but he imagined Sherlock putting a heavy duvet on him and stroking his hair. Eventually, he calmed down, and he could open his eyes without feeling as if he was on the verge of a panic attack.

The next thing he needed to do was observe. He had been unconscious up until a few minutes ago, so he didn’t know where he was, or how much time had passed since he had left Sherlock in the kitchen. Thinking about Sherlock and the kitchen made his mouth go dry; he had been annoyed with Sherlock, and he had left him alone to get some air, that’s when he had been abducted. No one knew where he was; his sister thought he was at Mrs Holmes’ house, and Mrs Holmes thought he was with Sherlock. As for Sherlock, there was no way he would come looking for him, not after being called heartless.

What a stupid thing to say to the man who had welcomed him with open arms into his flat. In the days they had spent together, Sherlock had showed him countless times how not heartless he was; they had had long discussions during which Sherlock had opened up, he had been considerate and thoughtful, and he had shown several times that he possessed a sense of humour (albeit a slightly disturbing one, which John loved). Was he really angry with Sherlock for not caring about the victims, or was he scared that Sherlock didn’t actually care about _him_? Most likely the latter, but now wasn’t the time to think about that.

So, observations. He was obviously in a terribly old room that seemed at least partially underground. It was so damp the wallpaper was practically peeling off the walls, and thinking of wallpaper, the person who had chosen it had taste as horrifying as Sherlock’s landlady. As far as he knew, there were two kidnappers: the thin Jim from PCeU whom John could overcome without a doubt even with his hands and feet tied, if only he weren’t stuck to the table. The other one was taller and much more robust than Jim, but John hadn’t had a proper look, having seen him only briefly while he and Sherlock had chased him across London.

His two assailants weren’t in the room right now, and for all he knew, dozens of men could be waiting upstairs. He didn’t know whether they were armed, but they had sedated—wait! They had sedated him, and he had been knocked out almost immediately. Had he been given M99? Was he in the hands of the Internet Killer? Jim Moriarty was a computer expert, it would have been easy for him to set up an un-closable website. With the help of an accomplice, he could have been at work, unsuspected, while his partner kidnapped and filmed the victims.

Great, so he was the prisoner of someone who enjoyed broadcasting his murders on the Internet, so there was no doubt that’s what was awaiting him in the near future. Unfortunately, once the broadcast would start, he had no chance of being spared. His thoughts were interrupted when he heard steps coming closer. Then, a door creaked, and it wasn’t long before he was faced with Jim’s horrible smile looking down at him.

“Finally! I was afraid you were going to be late for your own party,” Jim said, his high voice sending chills running down John’s immobilised spine.

“It’s you then, the Internet Killer,” John said flatly. He had to remain calm; being arrogant or violent would only make matters worse.

“Yes, it’s me,” he said, smiling as he insisted on the last syllable.

“Where are we?” John asked.

“Johnny, Johnny, Johnny… Do you seriously think I will tell you? You and my last victim almost ruined everything with your little Morse code stunt, I can’t risk you blinking away our location as soon as you’re online, can I?”

“Why me?”

“Because Sherlock Holmes seems to have taken an interest in you, and I’m _extremely_ interested in Sherlock Holmes,” Jim answered.

“Why not kidnap him, then?” John asked. Not because he wanted Sherlock to be in his current position, no, far from it. He had grown attached to the consulting detective in the short time he had known him, perhaps a little too attached, and the last thing he wanted was to see Sherlock bound and helpless on Jim’s website.

“Because I don’t care about you, I don’t care about what you’d feel if Sherlock were to die. But if _you_ die, that’s interesting.”

“Why?” It was an old cliché, but he was buying time by trying to distract Jim from the computer and camera he supposed were in another corner of the room. He still had time. As long as he wasn’t hanging from the ceiling, he had time.

“I’ve been watching Sherlock Holmes for a long time now. You see, I’m what our dear detective would probably call a ‘consulting criminal’; people come to me with various problems and I fix it for them. Kidnapping, murder, theft, insider-trading, torture; there is nothing I haven’t organised. Sherlock Holmes has unknowingly interfered with my plans more times than I can count—”

“So you seek revenge. I still don’t understand why it has to be me.”

“Revenge? Oh no, no no no no, nothing so ordinary,” Jim said with a grimace. “Sherlock and I are alike; two extremely intelligent men, both selfish, cunning, brilliant, and devoted to our work. The perfect partners. Yet, for some unfathomable reason, Sherlock decided to side with the police.”

John didn’t know how much time had passed since he had been sedated. A few hours certainly. This situation didn’t feel real; he was tied to a table while a madman who looked fresh out of a movie explained his motives. If John’s life were a movie, Sherlock would wait until the very last moment to barge in through the door and rescue him, long coat billowing behind him. Oh please, let his life be a movie, even a cheesy one, he didn’t care.

“I worked out a plan for Sherlock to see how rotten the world is, to show him that working with Scotland Yard is useless; no matter how hard he works, I will always win because people are rooting for me. You saw how quickly your two predecessors died; the citizens of London didn’t care that they were good and well-liked men, they didn’t care that Cameron Banks was volunteering for the Scouts, and that Peter Howarth was an exemplary husband, they wanted to watch them suffer and die. I will always win, and I wanted Sherlock to see, hoping it would make him jump ship and join me.”

“Sherlock is a good man!” John spat, losing some of his control.

“No Johnny-boy, Sherlock Holmes is a _great_ man, and the two of us could do exceptional things together. We’d be unstoppable.”

“He’ll never work with you. Sherlock helps people, and he saves lives.”

“That’s not what you were telling him earlier, is it?” Jim asked tauntingly.

John felt all the blood leaving his face. How did Jim know about what had happened in Sherlock’s kitchen earlier?

“How?” he asked.

Jim threw his head back and laughed, his whole body shaking in the process. Then, he stopped abruptly; it was a terrifying sight.

“People always assume their houses are private, far away from prying eyes and ears. Yet, it’s so easy for a computer expert with a good Trojan to gain access to other people’s lives, especially when someone receives dozens of emails and puzzles every day from potential clients. It was surprisingly simple to gain access to Sherlock’s webcam. I must admit it’s been riveting to watch you and him dancing around each other. You’re quite special Johnny; I had never seen Sherlock with a friend before.”

John felt dull anger pulsing through his veins. This insane man had violated Sherlock’s privacy, he had breached his sanctuary and had turned him into a lab rat, something to observe and study. Again, he reminded himself that he needed to stay calm and clear-headed, that it was the key to escaping unharmed. Taking a few deep breaths, he waited for Jim to continue.

“I really don’t know what he sees in you, but I know he _does_ like you. He likes you quite a lot. At first, all I wanted was to show Sherlock what he was missing, to lure him into a world without rules and limitations, but after seeing you two playing house together, I was inspired. You know what people always say; if you want someone, kill his friends.”

“I’m sure no one says that,” John said.

“Yeah you’re right, they don’t. But I hope it’ll catch on.”

“Well, good luck with that.”

“Aren’t you curious to know how Sherlock will react when he’ll realise that, because of him, the only friend he’s had in _years_ is dead.”

“If I die, it will be your fault, not Sherlock’s!”

“If only I’d been quicker, cleverer! Oh, John, what did I do? I let you down, boohoo John I loved you so much,” Jim mocked, and his cold voice made John shiver, his whole body covered in goose bumps.

“Now Johnny, if you’ll excuse me, I have some work to do. We’ll go live in the afternoon, and I want everything to be perfect. You won’t see me again; I’ll be at work when you die, but I’ll leave you in very capable hands. Sebastian was in the army too; you’ll have loads of things to talk about.

Then, Jim patted John’s cheek and left. John still had no idea what time it was, or how long he had until his own personal counter went up on the website. To keep his mind sharp and busy, he started thinking about ways to escape, taking in what he could see of his surroundings. He was a soldier; he wouldn’t go down without a fight.

:::

To say Sherlock had a dreadful night was an understatement. The samples he and John had collected were useless; there was nothing in the basement that could help him identify the killer. Without tangible evidence to focus on, his thoughts kept coming back to John. In order not to keep his hopes up, he kept telling himself that John was gone for good, that he had left for Mummy’s house, and that he wouldn’t be back. Yet, with every passing hour, he could feel the burden of crushed hope bending his spine. No matter how hard he tried not to, he kept perking up when a cab stopped outside, but he was disappointed every time, the urge to smash his head against a wall becoming stronger every time the cars that weren’t dropping John off drove away.

He waited until late morning to go to Scotland Yard and see Lestrade. He was anxious to know if someone had managed to track Patrick Bateman, the elusive man from the M99 buyers list, but most of all, he had to get out of his flat. He was getting restless. He needed to get away from John’s empty chair in the kitchen, from the rumpled duvet on the sofa, and from John’s suitcase that was still in the upstairs bedroom, radiating false hope all the way down to the living room.

When Sherlock arrived, Lestrade was pacing in his office. He didn’t look as though he had slept at all the night before; he had dark circles under his eyes, his shirt was ruffled, and the hand holding his coffee mug was shaking, a sign that this wasn’t even close to being his first cup. Upon hearing Sherlock, the DI turned around.

“What are you doing here? Have you found anything?”

“No, we’re dealing with a very intelligent killer,” Sherlock said.

“Don’t tell me you fancy him,” Lestrade said with a smirk, and Sherlock rolled his eyes as a response.

“Where is your new friend this morning?” Lestrade asked as he hit refresh on his browser to check whether there was something new on the website. There wasn’t.

“He’s my brother’s friend. He left.”

“That’s too bad, you two seemed like you were getting along.”

Sherlock ignored him, and he started inspecting the board where the DI kept all the information about the case. There had to be something there, no killer was infallible, especially if Sherlock was on the case. He inspected the evidence scattered across the wall, sometimes adding a few notes of his own while Lestrade watched him intently.

They spent the next two hours discussing the case. Donovan and Anderson joined them at one point, followed by Jim from PCeU. Anderson had arrived to the same conclusions as Sherlock regarding the crime scene, Donovan’s search for Patrick Bateman had been fruitless, and Jim still couldn’t help them identify who had set up the website. All so useless, it was infuriating to be in the same room as them.

“Video feed is back,” Lestrade said.

Following the DI’s announcement, Sherlock was almost immediately behind the desk to look at the screen. The video feed took a while to load, and Sherlock waited impatiently while drumming his fingers on the back of Lestrade’s chair.

When the video finally appeared, Sherlock felt as if he were falling without ever hitting the ground. His heart felt as though it was in his throat, and it was beating furiously while Lestrade’s office was blurring. The voices were becoming more and more distant until he couldn’t hear them. He wasn’t in Scotland Yard anymore, the external stimuli could barely reach him; he was locked inside his brain, lost in a storm while every single one of his neurons screamed _John, John, JOHN_. Then, he was violently brought back to reality when he felt an unwelcome hand on his shoulder, and he looked around to see Jim watching him attentively.

“Sherlock, are you okay?” he asked, and Sherlock didn’t answer, but he moved away from the touch, his eyes still fixed on the computer.

Contrary to the other times, the camera was zoomed in on John’s face, and they couldn’t see anything that could’ve helped them determining where he was. He was hanging upside down, gagged and blindfolded, but everything else was out of sight. The counter showing the number of viewers was going up at an alarming speed and, if Sherlock was not mistaken, it would be even quicker—no, he couldn’t think about that.

“John,” he whispered.

:::

Jim’s associate wasn’t as chatty as Jim had been, but it was uncanny how people seemed to open up when one of the speakers had a death sentence. He had observed the same thing in Afghanistan, but usually the people talking were the dying ones; he couldn’t count the number of confessions he had witnessed while tending to fatally wounded soldiers. The man tying his ankles to a chain was named Sebastian (also known as Patrick Bateman), and he had also been in the army, but had been forced to retire for what seemed like highly dubious reasons.

The chain was then tossed over a pipe and was tied down to an iron spool to which a crank had been fastened. Sebastian blindfolded and gagged him, and John felt his back slide against the table as Sebastian turned the crank with difficulty. Too soon, he was dangling upside down a few feet above the ground. Sebastian blocked the crank, pushed the table away, and fastened the cable-tie securely holding John’s wrists together to a ring bolted to the floor with a strong rope. He knew the computer and camera equipment were in place a few feet away from him, but the show wasn’t on yet.

John managed to keep his heartbeat under control while he heard Sebastian walking away from him and up to the desk where the computer was. He heard the chair creak, followed by the sound of fingers repeatedly hitting the keyboard, and then the rustling of paper that probably meant Sebastian had just opened a newspaper. The show had probably started, then. John’s less than ideal position was available for all Britain to see.

John had had enough time to observe the basement to come up with a strategy. Taking one deep breath, he started working on the rope tying his wrists to the ring.

:::

Sherlock’s thoughts were spiralling out of control, almost drowning the cacophony in Lestrade’s office. His brain was still chanting a panicked chorus of _John, John, John_ , while he was analysing dozens of different ways to save his new friend. Nothing would work; he needed to know where John was before any plan could be put into action.

John still looked calm enough, but his face was virtually unreadable with the gag and blindfold obscuring his features. Sherlock, on the other hand, was in a state of agitation he had never experienced before. Unlike John, he could see the number of viewers growing alarmingly larger, and in order to think properly, he turned away from the computer.

The killer had changed his method, and that was important. Why was it important? It had been the same the other times, even when he had been killing animals. He was thorough and precise; he wouldn’t have changed his modus operandi unless something was forcing him to. What could he accomplish by restricting the view around John? There had to be something in the background that could’ve helped him identify John’s location. That only left…most of London. Well, most of London was better than all of London.

“John is somewhere the killer knew I would recognize,” Sherlock announced.

“What?” Anderson asked, and Sherlock shot him a nasty look.

“The killer knew I would be able to make out John’s location if he showed more than he is now, that’s why the camera is zoomed in on his face.”

“That makes sense,” Lestrade said, “but we can’t send a team to every single place you know in London. We need to narrow it down.”

“Yes, yes, _I know_!” Sherlock shouted as he grabbed two fistfuls of his dark curls and started pacing around the room.

“There can’t be many places where he could take John and tie him up without anyone noticing. We’re not only looking for somewhere private, but also for a place where he could be unbothered for a long period of time. It can’t be outdoors; the lighting isn’t right,” Sherlock said, the words spilling out of his mouth almost uncontrollably.

“I need a list,” Lestrade said, grabbing a pen and paper.

Sherlock barely heard him; his eyes were glued to John’s face. Behind the gag, he looked as though he was smiling, and that smile went straight to Sherlock’s brain, hitting something that managed to make him a little calmer. Through that smile, it seemed as if John was telling him things were going to be fine, and Sherlock wanted nothing more than to believe him.

:::

John smiled when the knot tying his wrists to the ring on the floor finally gave. He couldn’t believe his luck; Sebastian had tied an extraordinarily complicated knot, one that was practically impossible to untie for someone who hadn’t learned how to do so in the army. Enrolling seemed like the best idea he had ever had, and he continued to smile as he started working on the second part of his plan. He longed to take his blindfold off, but he didn’t want to alert Sebastian just yet, and regaining his sight wasn’t as important as what he had to do next.

Slowly, he started rocking back and forth.

It was like trying to gain momentum on a playground swing without using his feet. John was pushing himself back and forth while Sebastian chuckled in the background, obviously amused. John knew there was a pole in a particularly dark corner a few feet behind him, and all his thoughts were fixated on it; on how far away it was, and on how wide his trajectory needed to be if he hoped to achieve his goal. He only had one shot; he couldn’t screw it up.

:::

On screen, John was now moving. From the way his torso was rocking back and forth, he had obviously managed to free himself from what was tying him to the floor. The more he moved, the wider his trajectory was becoming, inch-by-inch. It was only a matter of time before his swinging brought him off screen, showing a tiny bit of the wall behind him. Sherlock felt as though his heart was going to stop when he caught a glimpse of what was behind John, something that seemed oddly familiar. He held his breath while he waited for John to swing back once more, and when he did, any doubt that remained as to where he was being held captive were erased.

“Baker Street. Now,” Sherlock said.

Everyone started moving at once. The policemen got ready to leave while Sherlock urged them on; it wasn’t long before they were packed in police cars, sirens blaring as they hurried to Baker Street. For once, Sherlock rode in the same vehicle as Lestrade, his usual reluctance to being seen in a police car forgotten. On the way, Sherlock called Mrs Hudson, and he told her to put the key to the basement flat on her table and leave immediately. When she asked for an explanation, he told her it was for her own safety, and he hung up. He was twitching in his seat, torn between the fear to look at the website and discover it was too late, and the need to see that John was still as safe as he could be. In the end, he decided not to look to keep his head clear of distractions. As he pressed his forehead against the cool window, he willed the people watching John’s struggle online to close their Internet browser.

Please, let him live, he thought.

:::

John had successfully built a rhythm, but he wasn’t quite _there_ yet. He tried his best not to think about the counter on the website, but part of him was constantly aware of how little time he had left. From the fact that Sebastian hadn’t tried to stop him yet, John knew he was still in the crossbow’s trajectory. Exactly where he needed to be if he wanted his plan to succeed. Although he couldn’t see, he had studied the layout of the room very carefully before he had been blindfolded, and he knew he was getting close.

He swung relentlessly, the pipe creaking and groaning, but unmoving and strong as he thrust his body forward again. Then, when he was swinging back, he threw his arms back as far as they would go, and he successfully managed to grab the pole he was aiming for. The metal felt slippery under his sweaty palms, but he held on as tightly as he could. He could hear the old boiler’s rumbling sound beside him and he sighed in relief; he was exactly where he wanted to be. Struggling a little, he managed to pull his blindfold down and he waited.

“No, that won’t do,” Sebastian said before walking up to John.

It was all a question of timing. By wriggling behind the pole until it supported his chest, John was free to grope for the thin steam pipe of the boiler, and he yanked it as hard as he could. He felt the old metal rupture and the pipe burst open, causing a violent eruption of the pressurised steam. The metal was hot in his hands, but John held on, and he directed the scalding-hot steam at Sebastian’s face. Sebastian took a few steps back, trying to get away from the steam, but John didn’t let go until the pressure died down and Sebastian was on the floor, his burnt face buried in his also wounded hands.

John still wasn’t out of trouble, but the success of his plan’s first part made him exhilarated, and he was thrumming with renewed energy. His wrists were still tied together, and he was still hanging from the ceiling, but the battle wasn’t lost; it was just beginning. As Sebastian stumbled to his feet, John got ready for the next round.

:::

Sherlock retrieved the key from Mrs Hudson’s flat, and he was glad to see she had obeyed him and left. Lestrade was waiting beside the 221C door, but his team was still outside in order not to let the Internet Killer know they were there; the last thing they wanted was for him to panic and kill John before his time was up. It was Lestrade who unlocked the door, and he gestured for his team to follow him. Sherlock had been told to stay behind until the area was secure, but he ignored the DI’s orders and rushed inside the basement flat as quickly as he could.

:::

John knew there was no way he would ever free his ankles from the chain and cable tie alone, so he didn’t waste any time trying. Instead, he got ready to face Sebastian in the position he was in, taking deep breaths and visualising what he needed to do to bring the other man down. When Sebastian managed to push through the pain and stumble towards him, John waited for the right moment to let go of the pipe, which made him swing towards his kidnapper.

Before Sebastian could hit him, John used his joined hands to deliver an unforgiving blow to his genitalia. Then, when Sebastian fell down, John brought his arms up until they collided violently with the other man’s nose. John felt warm blood trickling down his hands, and he grinned behind the gag. However, he didn’t have time to bask in his victory; there were frantic footsteps coming down the stairs, which could mean Sebastian’s accomplices had been alerted by the noise. In order to get ready for another fight, he took the gag off and waited for the intruders to show themselves

:::

When Sherlock entered Mrs Hudson’s dark and damp basement flat, the sight that greeted him was nothing like what he had expected. The first thing he noticed was John who was still hanging from the ceiling, and thankfully still alive. Sherlock experienced a slight surge of panic when he saw John’s hands and arms covered in blood, but he soon realised it wasn’t his. In fact, the kidnapper looked as though he had had a much worst day; his face, neck and hands were covered in angry red blisters, and his nose was bleeding profusely.

“Jim! It was Jim from PCeU!” John cried out when he saw them entering the room.

Sherlock filed that information for later observation; now was not the time to think about what he had obviously missed, and that had nearly cost John his life. What he needed to do now was to get rid of the weapon still threatening John. Sherlock ran to the crossbow, his heart racing as he pushed it out of the way, making sure it was aimed at a wall instead of John. Meanwhile, Lestrade handcuffed the bloodied man – who wasn’t in any condition to put up a fight, thanks to John’s special treatment – and shouted for Donovan to ring the Yard and raise the alarm about Jim Moriarty.

Once the threat of the crossbow was eliminated, Sherlock ran over to John and knelt beside him to make sure he was alright. When John assured him that he was fine, albeit a little dizzy, no words could express the relief Sherlock felt. John was safe, he was unharmed, he had survived, and he had saved himself. Was there anything that marvel of a man couldn’t do?

With the help of two sergeants from the Yard, they managed to lower John to the floor without putting too much stress on his damaged shoulder, and they cut the cable-ties tying his wrists and ankles together. Sherlock helped him up to his feet, and he put an arm around his waist while John waited for the dizziness to cease. When John murmured “Christ!” and his legs wavered, Sherlock tightened his grip. He didn’t even think about their proximity until John wrapped his arms around him and thanked him. Suddenly, it was a little harder to breathe, and Sherlock didn’t answer, he just put his other hand on John’s back and pulled him closer, his cheek resting on the smaller man’s head.

Sherlock didn’t know how long they remained that way. He knew there were dozens of things he had to do at the moment; the case wasn’t closed, and he needed to think about the fact that the killer had been prancing in front of him for the past few days. However, the only thing that mattered for now was John’s steady heartbeat against his chest.

:::


	8. Chapter 8

It took an hour before Sherlock and John could finally return to Sherlock’s flat. It would have taken longer; Lestrade wanted them to come back to Scotland Yard so John could give his official statement and Sherlock could help with the Moriarty investigation. Sherlock refused, saying he had already told them everything he knew about Jim Moriarty and the crime scene, and the likely state of chaos at the Yard meant giving a simple statement would undoubtedly take a few hours. He had to promise he would text Lestrade if he ever thought of anything that could help them catch Moriarty, as well as assure him they would go to the Yard early the next morning to give their statement before they were allowed to leave. Then, finally, Sherlock could finally return home with John, who obviously needed a strong cup of tea and a long nap.

John. He had been drugged, kidnapped, hanged from a ceiling, and almost shot in the heart with an unforgiving arrow. Yet, he seemed pretty calm and unruffled. Sure, he was an ex-soldier with nerves of steel, but he had answered Lestrade’s questions as calmly as if the DI had been asking about his evening plans. Sherlock had seen plenty of kidnapping victims in the five years he had worked alongside Scotland Yard, but none of them had ever reacted like John. He had seen tears, anger, shock, but never that quiet patience. While Sherlock had been buzzing with the desire to go home, John had endured the endless questions without any complaints.

Upon entering Sherlock’s flat, John made a beeline for the kettle, and he remained silent as he prepared two cups for Sherlock and himself. Sherlock watched him closely, wondering what to do next. Someone who, like John, had just escaped death usually longed for some sort of comfort, but nothing in his body language suggested that he needed it. For Sherlock who was unused to providing reassurance, who had never acted as a soothing presence for as long as he could remember, this should have been excellent news.

Yet, he felt the urge to be close to John, to hug him tightly as he had done in the basement, and never to let go. To comfort John or himself? That was hardly noteworthy; what was important was John’s functioning lungs transporting oxygen to his bloodstream, and his strong heart pumping oxygenated blood through his veins. He wanted to feel the proofs that John was still breathing, to experience them with his own skin, but the kitchen table was stretching between them in what seemed like miles and miles of wood.

Then, unexpectedly, John’s whole body went still and he put his mug on the table before running into the living room where Sherlock’s laptop was lying on the sofa. Jim’s macabre website was still in the state it had been in when Sherlock had left the flat earlier that day: black background without the video feed. When John hit the refresh button, an error message announcing the server couldn’t be found appeared. It wasn’t surprising, considering Lestrade’s team had unplugged everything in 221C to bring it back to the Yard, but it was still satisfying to see part of the murder weapon in no state to cause harm. Then, John shut down the laptop completely, and Sherlock raised a puzzled eyebrow.

“He used your computer to spy on you,” John explained, “I don’t know exactly how he did it, but he said something about a Trojan, whatever that is.”

Sherlock felt nauseated at the thought of the criminal spying on him, entering his flat without his consent, immersing himself in his life, and seeing him at his most vulnerable. Feeling his pulse drumming with anger, he grabbed his laptop from John’s hands, opened the window, smashed it against the metal railing, and threw it down onto the pavement.

“Are you alright?” John asked, concerned.

Sherlock couldn’t believe what he was hearing. John was asking him whether he was alright. _Him_! Obviously, it had been excruciating for him to watch John suspended from the ceiling while the counter constantly reduced his life expectancy. He had been almost sick with worry and fear, but it was nothing compared to what John had gone through.

“Are you?” Sherlock asked. “You got kidnapped, you almost died, and you escaped!”

“Yeah, I suppose I did,” John said with a small smile as he returned to the kitchen to grab his tea.

His moves were slow and reflected his exhaustion, but his steps were strong and assured when he returned to the living room. He slumped down onto the sofa as carefully as one can do when slumping down onto a piece of furniture, and he managed to do so without spilling any tea, which was a small victory in itself. Sherlock followed, picking up his notes on the case, and sitting as close to John as possible without seeming suspicious. There were so many things that didn’t make sense, so many things he didn’t understand, and he still couldn’t figure out why John had been involved.

“Don’t think so hard, you’ll break something,” John said with a soft smile.

“I don’t have enough data.”

“Can I help?”

“I think, yes. I need you to tell me what happened. Be precise,” Sherlock said.

It took John almost thirty minutes to describe what had happened to him since he had angrily stormed out of 221B Baker Street the night before. He was often interrupted, mostly by Sherlock’s questions, but also by the need to yawn that was becoming increasingly strong. He told Sherlock everything he remembered, starting from the startling appearance of Jim and Sebastian, and the needle he had felt piercing his neck. Then, he told him about waking up in a place so damp it felt like downing in liquid air. He recited everything he could recall from Jim’s speech, which made the blood drain out of Sherlock’s face, making his already pale skin even more devoid of colour than usual.

“Of course, I wasn’t surprised it had everything to do with you, the message on the website had made it very clear. But I had no idea how obsessed with you he actually was,” John said.

“I had no idea either,” Sherlock echoed.

It was true. While Jim’s website had obviously been set up to get his attention, he had only concentrated on the puzzle and the game. Now, strangely, he felt as though he had been betrayed. He had admired the killer’s intellect, had praised his genius, which had shaken his friendship with John, and he had enjoyed the chase. Knowing the killer had been nothing but a little man with an unhealthy fascination with him made his blood boil with anger.

“I should have known it was him,” Sherlock said.

“How could you know? It’s not like he was walking around stroking his evil beard and cackling evilly,” John said, attempting to lighten the mood.

“All the signs were there, but I didn’t observe. Even you noticed his fascination with me was strange and disturbing; I was fooled like an amateur.”

“There are plenty of strange and disturbing people walking around. Anderson seems a little shady, doesn’t mean he kills people.”

“He gave me his phone number—”

“Anderson?”

“Of course not. Jim,” Sherlock said as he ran to his bedroom, found the jacket he had been wearing on Monday night, and dug a hand in the pocket to find the small piece of paper with Jim’s number on it.

He had forgotten all about it in the whirlwind of emotions the case had been, but now he needed to ring the number, to see whether it had been another one of Jim’s taunts. When he returned to the living room, he sat beside John again, and he took out his phone. He dialled quickly and pushed the speaker button when the phone started ringing, and ringing, and ringing until the voicemail started.

 _You’ve reached the voicemail of Jim Moriarty, hi! Please leave a message, or if you want to play, you can find me at 4, Susan Close. Ciao!_

“That’s the address, it’s where he killed his first victims,” John said, turning to look at Sherlock with wide eyes.

Sherlock didn’t need John telling him, he knew already. He also knew what the implications of his failure were. He gripped his phone so tightly his knuckles turned white; he couldn’t believe how unobservant he had been. He had had the address in his pocket all this time, and he hadn’t deduced it. He let out a pained groan and let his head fall back.

“You couldn’t know, he was just a creep leaving you his phone number,” John said, but Sherlock ignored him.

“Sherlock, come on. No one knew,” John insisted.

“No one ever does, but I do. I always do.”

“Yeah, I suppose you do. But there’s nothing you can do, why don’t you go to bed? You look exhausted—”

“I need to look over my case notes; if I missed this, there could be something else I missed,” Sherlock said, and he picked up the pile of paper laying in front of him on the coffee table to start riffling through them.

John stayed beside him, reading at first, but soon his eyelids became too heavy to keep them open. It took thirty minutes for John to fall asleep, but Sherlock was so engrossed in reading his notes for the second time that night, he noticed it only ten minutes later, when John’s head hit his shoulder.

Sherlock froze. He didn’t dare move lest he woke John up, but he let his papers fall onto the floor to better concentrate on John’s steady breathing tickling his neck. Maybe John was right, perhaps there was nothing he could do at the moment. He wanted to watch, to see how sleep changed John’s features, so he carefully turned his head. As soon as Sherlock moved, John pressed closer until his face was buried in Sherlock’s long neck. The angle was horrible, and Sherlock knew John was bound to wake up sore and aching if he slept in that position, yet he was reluctant to wake him up. John had just fallen asleep, he didn’t need to wake him up now; he could still watch him for a little while, right?

Sherlock didn’t plan on falling asleep; a difficult endeavour since he had hardly slept in the last couple of days, but he was stubborn. For as long as John would be sleeping, he was determined to keep watch and protect him. From what? He didn’t know. From Jim Moriarty and Sebastian Moran, from anyone who wanted to hurt him, from Mycroft, from the whole world. Sherlock was usually repulsed by other people’s weaknesses, so the desire to protect John felt foreign and strange. Possibly because John had proven that he was stronger than he seemed. Maybe because he was so capable of taking care of himself and didn’t need saving, but the sight of John looking vulnerable in his sleep made Sherlock want to be so much stronger, to be better.

The deeper John’s sleep became, the more he snuggled up against Sherlock who kept telling himself he would wake John soon, very soon, just another minute. It would have been easier to wake him up if he had been sleeping peacefully, but John moved a lot, and his face often twisted into a pained grimace. The worst were the small sounds escaping his lips. They sounded halfway between sobs and moans, and they went straight to Sherlock’s chest, making him feel like someone heavy was sitting on him. Before waking him up, there was something Sherlock wanted to try. He ran a hand through John’s hair, and the sleeping man immediately stilled before pushing his head back to meet Sherlock’s hand, leaning into the touch. It wasn’t long before John calmed down, and his small anguished cries were replaced by sighs of pleasure.

That finding was followed by a few experiments in which Sherlock stopped stroking John’s hair to determine whether he would go back to his agitated state (he did). When no doubt remained that he was acting as a source of comfort for John, Sherlock worked out a straightforward plan that would allow the both of them to be more comfortable. Very slowly and delicately, he moved the backrest cushions to the floor, and he manoeuvred their bodies until they were lying down, with Sherlock’s back against the back of the sofa and John pressed solidly against him. Sherlock’s arms were trapped between his chest and John’s back, but he didn’t mind, their position was much better. Sherlock closed his eyes as he inhaled slowly, his nose buried deep into John’s hair. As long as they were pressed tightly against each other, as long as Sherlock could feel the slow rise and fall of John’s chest, it was easy to pretend John was his.

For the next hour, Sherlock busied himself by trying to catalogue every single colour in John’s hair. Then, he tried to figure out whether there was a change in texture and in smell depending on where the hair was on his head. Despite his limited access, he was pleased to find out the scent behind John’s ear was particularly pleasing, as was the softness of the short, pale strands. While exploring, Sherlock discovered that John hummed softly in his sleep when his neck was stroked. Following that discovery, Sherlock couldn’t resist not quite accidentally brushing his fingers against the warm skin, just to hear the sounds he could elicit from John.

When the sun began to set, John started waking up, and Sherlock froze in fear that John would realise what position they were in and leave. In order not to make John uncomfortable, he started taking long, slow breaths to feign sleep. Honestly, it wasn’t just for John’s sake, it was also an experiment: a way to figure out how John would react to their proximity. Sherlock needed to know, so he waited. It was easy to tell the exact moment when John started being aware of his surroundings, and Sherlock closed his eyes, willing him to go back to sleep. For a few minutes, John remained still, but soon Sherlock could feel him shifting exceedingly carefully.

Surprisingly, instead of getting off the sofa, he turned around until he was facing Sherlock. It was hard not to give in to his instinct and hold his breath, especially since he could almost feel John’s eyes fixed on him. When Sherlock felt John’s hesitant fingers brush a dark curl out of his eye, his heart skipped a beat, yet it was nothing compared to what he experienced when John’s rough thumb ran over one of his cheekbones. It was a deliberate movement, a soothing touch, and Sherlock wanted to open his eyes and put his hands on John, to kiss him, like he had rarely wanted anything else before.

Eventually, John fell asleep again, but it took a while before Sherlock could reopen his eyes. When he finally did, he found that John looked peaceful, a small smile playing on his thin lips. Sherlock didn’t even try holding back his own smile; John hadn’t run off. Not only was he still on the sofa, he had woken up, realised what position he was in, and hadn’t minded. He had watched Sherlock sleep, and – Sherlock was dizzy just thinking about it again – he had gently stroked his cheek. It wasn’t enough information to conclude that John had deeper feelings than friendship for him, but it had to mean something. There was some kind of attraction there, right? Sherlock had never felt the urge to touch someone as much as he wanted to touch John; it had to be because he was attracted to him. Was John’s touch a sign that he was attracted to him too? It was hard to tell; Sherlock’s interactions with others had never quite been like those of normal people, maybe it was customary for friends to caress each other’s faces when they shared a sofa. He needed more data.

Sherlock honestly hadn’t planned on falling asleep, but John was so warm against him and he was so tired, his body gave in to the exhaustion. He wasn’t asleep for that long, but when he woke up, he and John were even closer than they had been. Their legs were entwined, and Sherlock had put an arm around John’s waist in his sleep. John was so close Sherlock couldn’t even tell whether he was awake or not. The room was very dark; it had to be later than ten.

“Hello,” John said, the word slightly muffled by Sherlock’s chest. Well, that answered one question.

“Hello,” Sherlock answered, “did you sleep well?”

“I did, actually. But why am I not in bed?” he asked, and Sherlock was pleased to notice that John didn’t seem appalled by the fact that he was sleeping on the sofa with his future brother-in-law, merely curious.

“You fell asleep on me, and I didn’t want to wake you up,” Sherlock explained.

“Oh. Sorry. I hope I didn’t drool on your shirt.”

“I don’t mind if you did,” Sherlock replied, and it was true, he really didn’t mind.

Perhaps, if there were traces of John’s DNA on his shirt, he could build a new John for himself. Although he didn’t want a new John, he wanted _this_ John. Maybe Mycroft could have the new John? Sherlock stopped that train of thought very quickly. It was idiotic and unrealistic; if he did manage to clone John, he would be an infant, and what good was that to anyone.

“I’m starving,” John said after a moment, apparently unaware that Sherlock still had an arm around him, or if he knew, he didn’t seem to care.

“There’s the pie you made on Monday,” Sherlock replied, “I put it in the fridge so it wouldn’t spoil.”

“Are you eating today?” John asked, concern seeping through his casual tone.

“The case is not closed.”

“You told Lestrade that Moriarty wouldn’t be found unless he wanted to be. What if he doesn’t want to be found for the next year? You can’t stop eating! I won’t let you!”

“Oh, alright. I’ll have pie,” Sherlock said in his best imitation of irritation, but the truth was he found John fussing over him quite endearing. John cared; he didn’t want Sherlock to starve himself. Also, John was still on the sofa, and he didn’t look uncomfortable at all. However, the need for pie meant they had to disentangle their legs, get off their small metaphorical island, and transfer to the kitchen.

John hadn’t even been in 221B Baker Street for a week, but they already had a kitchen routine. Sherlock’s place was on a chair, while John busied himself with putting the pie in the oven and finding forks. He was about to start looking for clean plates, but Sherlock suggested they ate directly off the pie dish, and John didn’t object. Instead, he started making tea: delicious tea with milk in it. It was a rare situation to have milk in the flat; Sherlock only occasionally bought some, he usually relied on Mrs Hudson bringing him a carton once in a while. Even then, he seldom drank it. It either went bad, or was used in various experiments. Or both.

When the pie was hot enough, John placed it on the kitchen table between them, and he handed Sherlock a fork. They didn’t bother with cutting pieces; instead, they started in the middle and worked their way out to the crust. The pie was at that perfect temperature between warm and hot, the apples were tender, and there was just the right amount of cinnamon. Sherlock closed his eyes when he took the first mouthful, enjoying the delicate blend of flavours and the moist texture. When he reopened his eyes, John was grinning at him from across the table.

“What?” Sherlock asked, and John’s smile turned into a soft laugh.

“For someone who refuses to eat while on a case, you really seem to enjoy it,” he answered.

“Food is a distraction, and I work better when I’m not distracted,” Sherlock answered matter-of-factly.

For the next minute, neither spoke as they concentrated on the pie. Yet, Sherlock never ceased to observe John from the corner of an eye. He seemed uneasy, troubled. Sherlock was considering asking what the problem was, but John spoke before he had the time to.

“Was I a distraction?”

Yes, I couldn’t stop thinking about you, Sherlock thought, but that wasn’t something he was supposed to say, he wasn’t ready to have this conversation. Instead, he settled for something safer, something that would erase the concerned frown lines from John’s face.

“You were invaluable. Without that thing you did, Moriarty’s associate would still be free, and there would probably be another person being tortured on that twisted website of theirs.”

“I wish I had noticed the second victim was blinking Morse code sooner, maybe then he’d still be alive,” John said regretfully.

“Don’t beat yourself up. It all comes back to what I was saying yesterday,” Sherlock said, the bitter memory of John leaving in anger still fresh on his mind, “people die, and it would be impossible to do my job if I dwelled on every victim.”

Sherlock ate another mouthful of pie while John shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“About last night,” John said, “I’m sorry I called you heartless. You’re not. I never thought you were. I don’t know why I said it.”

“It’s…easier if I don’t let myself care,” Sherlock tried to explain. “It was different when it was you; I lacked detachment, I couldn’t think, and I was utterly useless.”

“You found me, though,” John said, trying to hide with his hand the fact that his mouth was full of pie.

“I did. Yet, I didn’t feel the thrill I usually get when I solve a puzzle.”

“Oh, alright,” was John’s only answer, and silence fell over them.

In his quiet kitchen that was almost completely dark, the only source of light coming from the single turned on lamp in the living room, Sherlock had never been so tempted to ask about John’s reasons for marrying Mycroft. Yet he refrained, because as long as they didn’t talk about it, it was surprisingly easy to ignore the upcoming engagement. He still wanted to know, he _needed_ to know, but he still had time; he had two whole days left.

They were halfway done with the pie by then, but they kept eating. John seemed ravenous, and now that Sherlock had started eating, he couldn’t stop. He could almost feel his stomach purring with pleasure as he fed it mouthful after mouthful of delicious dessert. John was silent for a while, and they continued to eat, exchanging smiles across the table when their eyes met. It was John who finally broke the silence with a question.

“Was Moriarty right about you not having friends?”

“After uni, I never bothered making any. It seemed like a lot of work.”

“I consider you a friend.”

“So do I,” Sherlock replied, and they smiled at each other before turning their attention back to the pie.

“Moriarty thought it would have destroyed you if I had been killed,” John said after a while.

It took much self-control for Sherlock not to choke on his mouthful. It was unnerving to know there was a person out there who knew so much about him, despite having met him only a couple of times. He thought about his smashed laptop on the pavement, and he felt a surge of anger crashing through him at the thought of his violated privacy. As a way of responding to John’s last comment, he made a noncommittal humming sound.

The pie dish was now empty, save for some crust crumbs that Sherlock chased with his index finger before bringing it to his mouth to suck on the crumbs stuck to it. He felt deliciously full, and he longed for a few hours of sleep, but it was out of the question as long as John was sitting with him in the kitchen. As if on cue, John tried to hide a yawn behind his hand.

“You’re tired. Don’t let me keep you up.”

“Yeah, I think I’ll go to bed. Thank you, for everything,” John said, and he got up to rinse their mugs and the pie dish before going up to his temporary bedroom.

Soon after, Sherlock retreated to his own bedroom, changed into his pyjama, and slid under the covers. His duvet was still in the living room, but his room wasn’t that cold, and he felt too lazy to move. It wasn’t long before he fell asleep, dreaming of John’s body pressed against his. In his dream, Sherlock was bolder than he had dared to be; he kissed John when he felt his thumb stroking his cheek. When he became aware that he was dreaming, he fought as hard as he could to remain asleep, but it was a lost battle, and he felt the dream slipping away as consciousness crept in.

“Sherlock?”

He was startled when he heard his name, and he sat up in his bed, trying to locate the source of the sound. The room was still dark, but he could distinguish John’s deformed silhouette in the doorway. Wait, deformed? Sherlock blinked several times until his eyes got accustomed to the darkness, and he saw what gave John’s silhouette a strange and fluffy shape: he had his arms full of Sherlock’s duvet.

“John? Is there anything wrong?” Sherlock asked.

“I can’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I hear Jim whispering in my ear, and I just…can’t. To know he was so close, it creeps me out.”

“Do you need anything?” Sherlock asked, because there had to be a reason for John to be standing so awkwardly in his doorway.

“Could I… I mean, erm, I was sleeping earlier and, well, it was fine. I was wondering if maybe, ah, if you don’t mind—”

Sherlock frowned while he attempted to decipher what John was trying to say. The last time he had heard him sound so embarrassed, John had been about to ask whether he could stay in London longer. So, John was probably trying to ask for something he wanted, but he feared rejection. Given the circumstances, there weren’t many possible things it could be. He recalled John’s troubled sleep and his small cries that had ceased as soon as Sherlock had started stroking his hair.

“My bed is big enough for the two of us, come here,” Sherlock said, and John took a few hesitant steps into the bedroom.

“I brought your duvet,” John said, and he extended his arms towards the bed, as if offering a duvet was the price to pay to gain access to Sherlock’s bed. He looked so small and vulnerable that the possessive animal that lived deep in Sherlock’s stomach twisted and turned with longing.

“Come on, then,” Sherlock said, and John climbed onto the bed, pushed several books out of the way, and slid under the covers. They both tugged at the duvet until it covered their two bodies, and they lay side by side facing each other.

Sherlock closed his eyes, willing himself to sleep, but it was difficult when all he could hear was a loud chorus of Handel’s Messiah playing repeatedly in his head. It was hard to tell how long they stayed silent, but eventually John sighed and Sherlock opened his eyes.

“It’s not working,” John said.

It wasn’t surprising; the conditions were very different from what they had been on the sofa. Maybe what was missing was the tall body of one particular consulting detective wrapped around John. In order to replicate the sofa conditions, Sherlock shifted closer until he could wrap an arm around John’s waist, and he held him tightly against him. Then, he slid one of his long legs over John’s, and he rested his chin on the top of the smaller man’s head.

“I’m so sorry Sherlock, if it’s weird for you—”

“Shh,” Sherlock cut him off, “you’re okay, try to sleep.”

He felt John’s body relax, and very soon he was peacefully asleep, protected by the improvised cocoon formed by Sherlock’s body. It was better than making a particularly surprising deduction, it was better than a murder, and better than sharing a pie. Just knowing that he had brought some comfort to John made him feel powerful and so, _so_ good. The last thing he registered before he too fell asleep was John’s hand on his hip, a little over the waistband of his pyjama bottoms.

:::


	9. Chapter 9

The first thing Sherlock registered when he woke up was how surprisingly, painfully, gloriously _hard_ he was. Then, he noticed there was a hand on his arse, and suddenly, he wasn’t that surprised by his first realisation. Apparently, they hadn’t moved much during the night; he could feel John’s warm breath on his neck, the slow rise and fall of his chest against his own, and of course, the strong hand on his arse. Just thinking about that unexpected, yet not unpleasant touch made even more blood rush downwards, and he felt his cock twitch against…what was that? John’s upper thigh, most likely. That wouldn’t do; he had to get out of his bed before John woke up and noticed the erection pressed against him. Slowly and reluctantly, Sherlock started pulling away, but John groaned in his sleep, and he tightened the hold he had on Sherlock’s arse. The man was _strong_ , even when sleeping.  
   
Sighing and fighting the urge to rut against John’s thigh, Sherlock waited a few minutes before trying again, this time grabbing John’s wrist to prevent him from holding on. It took a while, mainly because their legs were so entangled it was hard to distinguish which belonged to whom. Once he was out of the bed, Sherlock took a few minutes to watch John sleep, but when he realised it was doing nothing to help get rid of his erection, he grabbed some clean clothes, and he made his way to the bathroom to take a very long, extremely cold shower. When he came down, John was awake and cleaning the dishes, still in his pyjama. He threw the dishcloth at Sherlock when he entered the kitchen, and out of reflex, he caught it. He observed John’s demeanour, and tried to determine whether he looked as though he regretted asking to share Sherlock’s bed the night before. Luckily, there wasn’t a trace of awkwardness in him, and the wave of relief Sherlock felt was particularly refreshing.  
   
“I’m going up for a shower, can you dry the dishes? I have a plan for breakfast if you’re up for it,” John said, and just as he was about to leave the kitchen, he turned around.  
   
“Thank you,” he said before hurrying out of the kitchen.  
   
Sherlock didn’t have time to respond, and soon he heard the bathroom door close upstairs. He figured the dishes would dry by themselves if he left them alone, and he put the dishrag on the worktop. Then, he picked up his mobile phone that he had closed the night before in order not to be bothered by Mycroft of Mummy. Or both. He almost never powered down his phone; people called him about cases on his phone, but a new case had been the last thing on his mind the night before. He turned the device on and waited for the familiar beeping sound announcing he had missed calls or text messages. When it came, he was surprised to discover he only had one message from Lestrade, which he didn’t reply to.  
   
 _When I said early morning, I meant early THIS morning._  
   
Nothing from Mycroft, and nothing from Mummy. It was surprising, but he welcomed with open arms the fact that they were leaving him alone. Someone from Mycroft’s team of obedient minions had probably checked the ‘Watch Me Kill’ website, seen that John was alive and well, and had told Mycroft who had told Mummy. Wonderful! It wasn’t long before John came back down and he rolled his eyes when he noticed Sherlock hadn’t touched the dishes.  
   
“Are you eating this morning? I was thinking about pancakes,” John said.  
   
“For breakfast?”  
   
“An army chef used to make them in the morning sometimes, I think he was French. Anyway, you seem like the kind to enjoy a sugar rush.”  
   
“Pancakes sound delicious,” Sherlock replied.  
   
“Well, the fridge is empty, so I’ll go to Tesco’s and I’ll be back in—”  
   
“No,” Sherlock cut him off, “you’re not leaving without me, not after you ruined a killer’s plans.”  
   
John laughed; he seemed remarkably cheerful this morning, and Sherlock could feel John’s almost childlike joy seeping through his skin and infecting every single one of his cells. They got out of the flat together, both looking around to make sure there wasn’t a thin black-haired Irish assassin about to pounce. Fortunately, the scariest thing they encountered was a particularly vicious little dog that looked at John’s ankle as hungrily as if they had been wrapped in bacon.  
   
The trip was uneventful, but charming and domestic. Yet, there was a bitter taste to it, and Sherlock felt a rather painful pinch in his chest close to his heart as John handed him a dozen eggs. Was this what it would have been like to live with John? Working on cases, going to bed together, waking up in a tangle of limbs, going to the shops early in the morning, and gathering ingredients for breakfast? He could barely stand the thought of giving it up once Mycroft came back. What would happen to his interlude with John when their time was up? He could cling to the memories and bask in their sweetness, dealing with the pain caused by the remembrance of what John had looked like while he had slept close to him. Or he could try his best to delete every single memory of John. The thought was heart-wrenching, but maybe in the long run it would be the less painful option.  
   
“What’s wrong?” John asked.  
   
“Nothing’s wrong, John,” Sherlock answered, emerging from his gloomy thoughts.  
   
“You seem a little…off.”  
   
“I’m fine. I was thinking about the case,” he lied.  
   
Sherlock mentally shook himself. He couldn’t walk around looking miserable while John was still with him, there would be plenty of time for misery and self pity later. He had two days left with John; he had to make sure their time together was pleasant. First, they would eat breakfast together. Then, they would go to Scotland Yard and give their statement. After that, the day was theirs. Perhaps Lestrade would have a small case for them, something that wouldn’t get John abducted, but that would still provide an enjoyable rush of adrenaline. Or they could take a walk again, test John’s leg and run a little bit. They could spend a lazy evening home; John curled up in his favourite armchair while Sherlock played the violin for him. Maybe, if he was very lucky, John would have trouble sleeping again, and Sherlock would make sure John knew he was available to provide comfort.  
   
Very soon, they were back in the kitchen. As Sherlock had predicted, the dishes had dried without any assistance, and he pushed them aside while John started working on the pancake batter. Eggs, milk, sugar, and flour went into the bowl one after the other while Sherlock watched with a small smile. There was a smudge of flour on John’s nose that he apparently hadn’t noticed, and Sherlock got closer. He discretely dipped a long finger in the flour bag while John was beating the mixture and frowning at the stubborn lumps.  
   
“You have flour on your face,” Sherlock announced, and John looked up, raising a hand to wipe at his face.  
   
“Let me,” Sherlock said again, and he used his flour-coated finger to leave a long white trace on John’s cheek.  
   
“Oh, you think that’s clever, don’t you?” John asked playfully, and he brandished the whisk as if it were a sword.  
   
Then, he slowly slid a finger down one of the wire loops, gathering batter along the way that he flicked in Sherlock’s direction, getting a few droplets in his hair and on his cheeks. Sherlock gave such a masterly imitation of a threatening glare that John burst out laughing, his head thrown back and his eyes closed, unaware that Sherlock had grabbed a handful of flour. John yelped when the white powder was thrown in his face, and Sherlock’s low rumble of a laugh filled the kitchen.  
   
John retaliated by plunging the whisk into the batter and flicking it at Sherlock a few times, sending long streaks of the pale preparation flying in his direction, hitting his chest and face. For a second, Sherlock stayed still as he felt the cold batter slide down his cheek and inside his shirt, but he was quick to recover; he grabbed a handful of sugar and started chasing John around the kitchen.  
   
“You’ll pay for this John,” he growled, and John ran away from him, still laughing.  
   
Sherlock managed to grab John’s wrist, and he pulled him close to sprinkle him with sugar, the small crystals making his hair glisten. Then, Sherlock retreated to the other side of the table and John grabbed an egg, looking at him threateningly.  
   
“You wouldn’t dare,” Sherlock said.  
   
“I wouldn’t?” John asked, raising a questioning eyebrow.  
   
“You’ll regret it if you do.”  
   
“That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” John replied, and he threw the egg in Sherlock’s direction.  
   
Sherlock was quick to react. He bent down, and the egg flew over his crouched body and through the doorway, where it was caught by a puzzled DI Lestrade.  
   
“Bloody hell! What’s going on in here?” he asked.  
   
Sherlock got up and turned around, surprised that he hadn’t heard the DI come in. Mrs Hudson had probably let him up. Lestrade looked confused, and Sherlock didn’t have to be a genius to figure out why; John’s hair and chest were covered in flour and sugar, and Sherlock was dripping with pancake batter. John let out a small giggle, and Sherlock let himself be won over by the ridiculousness of the situation and he joined in. Both laughed, looking more like two children having been caught doing something particularly silly than two grown men making breakfast. Lestrade had to clear his throat numerous times to finally get their attention.  
   
“Yes Lestrade, what is it?” Sherlock asked.  
   
“The only reason I let you go yesterday was because you promised to be back early this morning.”  
   
“It’s half nine! We planned on going after breakfast,” Sherlock said.  
   
“Were you planning on actually _eating_ breakfast, or did you intend to just…throw it around?” Lestrade asked while repressing a smile. Twenty years as an uncle had taught him how not to laugh when kids did something stupid. Like throwing pancake ingredients at each other.  
   
“Just give us a couple of hours and we’ll meet you at the station,” Sherlock said.  
   
“Well, I’m here already. John, if you give your statement now, I’ll leave you two alone with your…breakfast.”  
   
“Oh, alright!” Sherlock sighed. “I’ll go clean myself up in the meantime,” he said before grabbing a clean shirt from his bedroom and going up to the bathroom.  
   
The last thing he heard before closing the door was Lestrade politely refusing John’s offer to make him a pancake. It took a while to get all the pancake batter out of his hair, and in the end, he decided to take another shower. When he emerged from the bathroom, John and Lestrade were in deep conversation in the living room, and he sat with them until they were done. Then, it was John’s turn to take a shower while Lestrade and Sherlock discussed the case. From Sherlock’s point of view, it was useless. Jim Moriarty was a bit of an exhibitionist, but he was smart enough to avoid the scrutinising eye of Scotland Yard. Their conversation seemed as if it was stretching on forever, but it had probably only been a few minutes when Sherlock heard the doorbell ring.  
   
:::  
   
It wasn’t the first time Mycroft had to cut a business trip short because of his brother; Sherlock _did_ have a knack for getting into trouble. However, his reasons for coming back early this time were highly unusual. For the first time (and, hopefully, the last one too), he was coming back because Sherlock, who seemed as if he had taken a strange liking to his betrothed, had put John’s life in danger. Thanks to his faithful associate whose job was to keep a watchful eye on the CCTV footage, Mycroft had a very good idea of what his brother had been up to since he had picked John up from the train station. What he had heard was worrying enough for him to come back earlier without telling Sherlock.  
   
Mycroft hadn’t seen any pictures of John; the revealing of the future spouses was supposed to happen the first time they were face to face. For Mummy’s sake, he had wanted to observe the tradition. It almost hadn’t felt like cheating when he had asked his team of most trusted employees to run a background check on the man he was going to marry. He had been assured that John, an ex-army doctor, seemed like a perfectly adequate candidate, and that he wasn’t unattractive. He trusted his mother’s judgement, but it was so easy those days to hide one’s true identity on the Internet, and he wanted to make sure he wasn’t running blindly into a trap.  
   
Meeting John for the first time actually made Mycroft a little nervous. Unsurprisingly, working for the British government meant he had to meet new people almost every day, but meeting his future husband was different. There was always the risk he wouldn’t like this John Watson his mother had found on the Internet, and the mere idea of how more difficult his life would become if he had to cancel his mother’s plans made him cringe. It was also possible that John wouldn’t like him, but if it were the case, it was unlikely John would ever call off the wedding. Mycroft was aware of the reasons that had motivated John to agree to an arranged marriage, and he wasn’t bothered by those reasons. However, he didn’t relish the thought of living with someone who despised him; he had had enough of that growing up with his brother.  
   
He blocked those thoughts; it was useless worrying about that when John and he hadn’t exchanged a word yet. He had known of the dangers of an arranged marriage long before he had asked his mother to find him a husband, and it was obvious the advantages outweighed the risks. His other option would have been to look for a companion the usual way, which meant he would’ve had to find the time to meet people, flirt with them, organise dates, ring them, flirt some more, date again…. All in all, it involved too much legwork, and he had done enough of that while climbing his way up the government ladder. Really, he was far too busy to devote some of his precious free time to such a tedious task as _dating_.  
   
Despite his placid exterior, his heart was beating abnormally fast when he rang the doorbell of 221B Baker Street. He was about to meet the man who would be his companion for, hopefully, the rest of his life. The man he would come back to in the evening after a long day at work, the man who would accompany him to the numerous dinners and charity events he had to attend. The man who would let him into his life and into his heart, who would accept his friendship and love, and who would turn to him when in need. The man who would share his life, and he blushed just thinking about it, his bed. When Sherlock’s landlady let him in, he climbed the stairs expectantly.  
   
Sherlock was sitting in a leather chair, looking totally disgusted by his presence. That was normal. What _was_ new was the man sitting across from his brother. From his point of view, Mycroft could see the man had grey hair, but the rest of him was hidden by the back of the chair. So, this was what his future fiancé’s back of the head looked like: grey and uncommonly, _exceptionally_ soft looking.  
   
“What are you doing here, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked, spitting his brother’s name like a curse.  
   
“Is that your brother?” the man who had to be John Watson asked before getting up and turning around.  
   
Mycroft swallowed with difficulty when he was faced with a remarkably handsome man. Under the hair (Mycroft still couldn’t believe how soft it looked), there was a proud forehead and tired eyes of a colour that looked a lot like melted dark chocolate. His lips were thin and curved upwards, giving him a playful countenance although he looked truly exhausted. His cheeks were covered with grey stubble, and there were a few strands of grey hair peeking through his collar. Mycroft now understood why the first sighting had to happen face to face; it was overwhelming to observe all John’s features at once.  
   
Now that Mycroft had gotten over his initial reaction of ‘handsome’, all he could think was ‘manly’, yet not in a clichéd way. The man standing in front of him exuded masculinity, and if he hadn’t known John had been in the army, he would have thought ‘police officer’. There was something both authoritative and reassuring about the man, and when he smiled, all traces of fatigue vanished from his traits. He seemed genuinely pleased to meet Mycroft, which made him smile as he extended his hand.  
   
“Mycroft Holmes, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”  
   
“Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, and believe me, the pleasure’s all mine.”  
   
Oh. So, this was the man who occasionally summoned his brother on cases, not his future husband. It made him wish he had taken the time to personally watch the CCTV footage of his brother instead of relying on his assistants. Something close to disappointment swelled up in him, but he refused to be disgruntled. Yes, he had been physically attracted to the DI, but it was probably only because he was expecting him to be his future husband. He didn’t doubt he would feel the same once in the presence of John Watson.  
   
“Sherlock said you are the most dangerous man I’ll ever meet, I don’t know if I should curtsy or arrest you,” Lestrade added with a playful smile and a twinkle in his eyes.  
   
Mycroft felt himself grow warmer around the collar, and he assured Lestrade that there was no need. He could almost hear Sherlock rolling his eyes in his chair, but he paid him no attention. Instead, he spent the next minutes discussing the case of the Internet Killer with the DI while Sherlock watched in what Mycroft liked to call his thinking pose. They chatted until a man coming down the stairs interrupted them.  
   
“Seriously Sherlock, you’re insane. There was sugar in my belly button. Hell, there was some in my _pants_!”  
   
Mycroft looked up, and he watched as the man who had to be the real John Watson came down the stairs. The man who, for some reason or other, had had sugar in his pants recently, was smaller than DI Lestrade, and if he had a little bit of grey in his hair, it was mostly a very light shade of brown. His blue eyes were sparkling, and he looked better rested than the DI. He was smaller, more compact, and everything about his stance screamed ‘military’. John stopped at the foot of the stairs, and he looked at Sherlock, then at Mycroft, and at Sherlock again.  
   
“Oh, sorry, hello,” he said awkwardly, and after thinking for a few seconds, he walked up to Mycroft and offered his hand.  
   
“I’m John Watson.”  
   
“How good to meet you at last. I’m Mycroft Holmes,” Mycroft said, mentally berating himself for comparing his betrothed to another man during their first meeting.  
   
John’s hand was firm, warm, and dry when he shook Mycroft’s. His smile was friendly and straightforward, and Mycroft could almost discern the edges of a strong body under the many layers of clothing. His team had been right; he was not unattractive. He looked like the kind of man who enjoyed calm evenings and lazy mornings, the kind of person who was gracious to everyone, and who would make a good impression. Yet, there was something in his eyes that suggested there was more to him than what was visible on the surface. Mycroft could see what his mother had seen in him; John looked like a living puzzle, as though he was made of contrasts and contradictions.  
   
Gregory Lestrade left soon after, and Mycroft chatted briefly with John while Sherlock sulked in his chair. John kept looking at Sherlock questioningly, but his younger brother was an expert at brooding, and nothing could make him emerge from his grumpy state. Mycroft was used to it by now; it was the same attitude Sherlock adopted every time he visited him, but John seemed disconcerted by it.  
   
“I’m eager to know more about the events of the last few days,” Mycroft said, “but, if you don’t mind, I’d prefer to continue our conversation in the car on our way to my mother’s house.”  
   
“Sure, I just need to gather my things,” John replied, and with one last look at Sherlock, he made his way up the stairs.  
   
“You can wait in the car, John knows the way out,” Sherlock said.  
   
“What do you see in him?” Mycroft asked quietly. “He doesn’t seem like your type.”  
   
“What do you know about my type?” Sherlock asked. It was unusual for him to keep his voice down; he obviously didn’t want John to hear their conversation.  
   
“Corpses, murderers, and people with interesting cases; those are the people you are usually drawn to. John Watson is none of that; hence my question. What do you see in him?”  
   
“Piss off Mycroft.”  
   
“I’m serious, Sherlock. Are you genuinely interested in him, or did I behold your latest scheme to make my life…difficult?”  
   
“Go wait in the car, you are not welcome here,” Sherlock said, ignoring the question.  
   
“Yes, that much is obvious,” Mycroft said, and for a few seconds that seemed much longer, he gazed into his younger brother’s eyes.  
   
He looked for the reason he had offered John his spare bedroom, was it just because John’s help was required on a case? Sherlock seldom needed help, but John was a doctor, and he obviously possessed further knowledge than Sherlock when medicine was involved. It seemed highly unlikely that Sherlock had developed deeper feelings for such an ordinary-looking man; did his brother even _have_ a sexual orientation? He had never seen him pursue someone romantically or sexually. It didn’t leave him with many options; either Sherlock genuinely needed John’s advice on the case (which didn’t explain John’s presence in Sherlock’s flat on Sunday and Monday) or he had decided he wanted what wasn’t his. Mycroft had seen it before; first it had been Mummy’s attention, then food, toys, privileges, books, and science equipment.  
   
“If you’re not inclined to discuss the matter, I’ll wait in the car. I’ll see you on Sunday night for the engagement party,” Mycroft said as he left the flat.  
   
:::  
   
If possible, Sherlock curled up even more in his chair. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go! He had two more days, _two full days_ before John had to attend his ridiculous engagement party. Mycroft had ruined everything, and how dared he barge in here to ask about the nature of his feelings for John when he couldn’t even name them himself. They were supposed to have _breakfast_ together, he thought petulantly as he dug his feet deeper into the leather armrest.  
   
“What’s wrong with you?” John asked when he came down the stairs with his enormous suitcase.  
   
Sherlock looked up to glare at John, and his insides churned unpleasantly when he thought that not one week before, he had had difficulties hauling his luggage upstairs. What did he get for ridding his brother’s betrothed of his psychosomatic limp? He got his two last days with John stolen away from him, that’s what.  
   
“Sherlock, what is it?” John asked as he kneeled beside Sherlock’s chair.  
   
Sherlock fixed his pale eyes on John, and the possessive monster inside him gave an angry growl at the remembrance of how amiable John had been to Mycroft earlier. He desperately wanted to be mad at John, to hate him for accepting to marry his brother, but it was insanely difficult. He could almost still hear the echo of their shared laughter in the kitchen, but John was looking at him with such concern that he felt his determination to be angry melt away.  
   
“Don’t marry him,” Sherlock said impulsively.  
   
For a moment, there seemed to be a sad shadow passing through John’s eyes, but he closed them, and it was gone. He took a long, shaky breath and reopened his eyes, no trace of sadness visible. Instead, there was a strong determination, the will to fight. They were the eyes of a soldier.  
   
“I have to,” John answered.  
   
“Why?” Sherlock asked, instantly hating how weak and pleading he sounded.  
   
“I—It’s the right thing to do.”  
   
“I don’t understand.”  
   
“I don’t expect you to. Please Sherlock, I have to—I need—Please come to the ceremony on Sunday night, maybe we can talk a little then,” John said as he got up and walked away.  
   
Every step John took away from him felt like Sherlock was being stabbed, and he knew what being stabbed felt like; he had been twice. John didn’t even say goodbye when he closed the door behind him. He didn’t look back, and it hurt so much that Sherlock wanted to both run after him and far away from him. He had asked John not to marry Mycroft; he had shown his hand, but John hadn’t accepted, which was the same as being rejected. Yet, he still couldn’t manage the strength to be angry. Instead, he got up and watched as John got out of the building.  
   
Look at me, Sherlock thought. Look at me and I’ll know it’s not over. Please, _please_ John, look at me.  
   
He watched as Mycroft’s driver got out of the black car, took John’s suitcase, and put it into the boot. John’s shoulders were slumped, and he was looking down; he seemed utterly defeated, and there wasn’t any visible trace of the soldier in him. Sherlock’s chest swelled with hope; it wasn’t too late for John to change his mind.  
   
Come back to me. Please come back, he wished as the driver opened the door. John seemed to hesitate for a second, and finally he looked up. Sherlock’s hand shot out, and he pressed his open palm to the window. His mind was chanting ‘John, _John_ ’ incessantly as he watched John raise a tentative hand, a mimic of Sherlock’s motion. When he lowered his hand and got into the car, something in Sherlock broke.  
   
Anger flared up in him, burning hot and white as it licked at his bones. He could feel it swelling up everywhere inside him, and he let it consume him. As if possessed, he walked to the kitchen and glared at the two similar mugs on the table beside the pancake batter. He was supposed to have _two more days_! He grabbed both mugs and threw them at the closest wall, feeling a slight twinge of satisfaction when he heard them break. It wasn’t enough, though. He then grabbed the heavy bowl, and with an anguished cry, he threw it onto the floor as violently as he could. The bowl smashed, pieces flying across the floor, and Sherlock was somewhat appeased when he watched the batter spilling slowly.  
   
:::  



	10. Chapter 10

After John’s departure, Sherlock spent the day sulking and abusing his violin; the high screeches a reflection of how he felt inside. He moped for hours, replaying the morning in his mind over and over again. How could a day that had begun so well end up being so rotten? John had wanted to stay, hadn’t he? Sherlock examined the evidence again: John had seemed sad when Sherlock had asked him not to marry Mycroft, he had fumbled with words when he had tried to explain, and his reasons for getting married had been less than satisfactory. He _had_ to. It was the _right_ thing to do. The way he had said it, it seemed as if the situation wasn’t under his control or as though wasn’t the one benefiting from the union. Was John being forced into this? It seemed unlikely, but he refused to abandon the hypothesis. John had seemed so dejected when he had gotten into the car; it _had_ to mean something. Yet, John had decided to leave with Mycroft, and unfortunately, that had to mean something too.  
   
Sherlock barely slept, but it wasn’t that surprising; he had had plenty of rest the night before, so his body didn’t actually need to sleep yet. Also, his bed smelled like John. He could have spent the night on the sofa or in the kitchen to save himself the pain, but instead he spent it with his face buried in the pillow John had used. He had plenty of time to formulate a course of action. He couldn’t interfere with his mother’s plan, not unless he wanted to be harassed for the rest of his life. She had been working on Mycroft’s wedding ever since he had expressed the desire to eventually enter an arranged marriage. The search for the ideal candidate had taken years, and if he ever tampered with the wedding, he feared his mother’s wrath would be greater than it had been the time he had accidentally set fire to the library curtains. And a substantial part of the library. And his eyebrows. Sure, his mother wasn’t getting any younger, but if one person could rise from the dead and haunt him, she was the one. However, it was entirely different if John decided to leave Mycroft and come back to him. If John had been betrothed to anyone other than Mycroft, Sherlock wouldn’t have been above seducing him and tempting him until he hopefully strayed from his marriage. Unfortunately, Mycroft would see through that act immediately, so he had to rule out that option and hope John would return.  
   
John _would_ come back; it was only a matter of time. Soon, he would realise Mycroft was a boring and pompous sod, he would miss Sherlock, and he would come back. A small part of him was aware that he was in denial, but denial wasn’t half as painful as reality, so he embraced it, he let himself drown in it. When the sun started rising, he got up too; he had to get ready for John’s return. He took a shower and shaved, then he put on his blood-coloured shirt; the one John had liked, and he cleaned up the pancake batter on the kitchen floor.  
   
When the flat was tidy enough (according to his standards), he got out to buy some more tea. He made sure Mrs Hudson was in her flat before leaving, and he gave her explicit instructions to let John in if (when?) he came knocking while Sherlock was away. On the way back, he came across a shrub of blooming lilacs and the smell unsettled him, bringing him back to Monday morning, when he and John had walked together in the park. The sudden onslaught of memories was so painful he nearly doubled over, and for a while he couldn’t move. When he came back to his senses, he picked a few branches and brought them back home with him.  
   
He spent long hours waiting and getting high on the scent of lilacs that now filled his flat. He played beautiful melodies on his violin, things he thought John would like, and he prepared a new serving of pancake batter that he stored in the fridge. Then, he meticulously glued the pieces of their broken mugs back together, toying with the idea of mixing the red and blue pieces together, just for the sake of owning something that was a blend of John and himself. He finally decided to put them back the way they were. When he was done, he waited some more. By Saturday night, his faith was wavering a little, but he kept waiting, although he remained on the sofa; he couldn’t risk falling asleep in his bed and missing John’s return. He brought the pillow with him, though; it smelled like a mixture of John and himself by then, which was even better than when it had smelled solely of John.  
   
With Sunday morning came a wave of disappointment. Mycroft and John’s engagement party was scheduled to begin in a little less than twelve hours, and the running countdown in his head was almost as alarming as the one he had watched on Jim’s website. He watched the hours pass in silence, watched as his shirt became more and more rumpled, but he refused to take it off. He wanted everything to be perfect for John’s return, even if it was harder and harder to believe in it with every passing hour. By the time the clock hit four, the weight of John’s absence was so heavy Sherlock could hardly breathe. If he had wanted to attend the party, he would have started getting ready, but he couldn’t go, not without giving himself away.  
   
The decision not to attend wasn’t as easy to make as he had expected. He didn’t doubt the evening would be dreadful and incredibly painful, but John had requested his presence. He had said please in a heart wrenching voice, and he had asked him to come, saying they would talk. He desperately wanted to please John, but he wasn’t strong enough. He wasn’t ready to play the role of the brother-in-law, to congratulate the happy couple, and smile for ridiculous pictures. John would most likely be disappointed not to see him there, but there would be plenty of people to distract him. He waited until five, the starting hour of the cocktail party, to altogether abandon hope. He sat on the sofa with his knees drawn up to his chest, rested his forehead on his knees, and let misery fully grab hold of him.  
   
For four hours, he didn’t move, but an incoming text eventually shook him out of his sulk, and prompted him to leave the flat in a hurry.  
   
:::  
   
 _Sherlock, please,_ John wrote, and he pushed the send button before adjusting his tie for the umpteenth time that night. He couldn’t wait to take it off and unbutton his shirt, but the evening was stretching on and on. He had shaken too many hands to keep count, and his palm didn’t feel like his own anymore. He was a stranger in his own body, just as he was a stranger in the spacious reception hall. He longed for a friendly and familiar face, for Sherlock. He was sitting at a table, alone, and observing the people who were gathered to celebrate his and Mycroft’s engagement. It was official; he was engaged. The evening had started with cocktails, followed by the actual ceremony, and a plethora of extremely tiresome pictures. Then, there had been dinner, and people were now scattered around the room in deep conversation, or in pairs on the dance floor. His fiancé was across the room, chatting with someone John thought was either an uncle or a colleague.  
   
Mycroft was the definition of elegance. His three-piece suit was perfectly tailored, his moves were calculated and precise, his smiles were polite, his hair perfectly in place, and his voice like smooth caramel. He must have felt observed, because he looked up at John and smiled at him from across the room. John returned the smile and took a sip of his white wine. Mycroft had been nothing but courteous to him during the two days they had spent together at Mrs Holmes’ house. When Mycroft hadn’t been working, they had had long discussions. They had gotten to know each other better while taking long walks around the Holmes’ grounds and drinking tea in the library. It had been pleasant, but this didn’t feel like his life. The last time he had felt like himself, he had been running away from a tall genius determined to sprinkle him with sugar.  
   
He smiled at the memory. The five days he had spent in Sherlock’s company had been exceptional, and he had felt truly alive for the first time since he had returned broken from the war. Living with the consulting detective had been a revelation; the man was brilliant. Sherlock was more intelligent than anyone John had ever met, but he was so starved for praise that John had been both touched and amused. Sherlock was also impulsive, infuriating, lazy, messy, reckless, petulant, and he possessed a childlike enthusiasm that John found heart-warming. He seemed to have a knack for doing incredibly stupid things for very logical reasons, and John had followed him without hesitation. Hell, he would follow again, even after all that had happened. _Especially_ after all that had happened.  
   
Once more, John scanned the room in search of the tall, dark-haired man. It wasn’t right, Sherlock was supposed to be here. They were friends! He almost laughed out loud at the thought. Of course they weren’t friends, one didn’t fantasise about his friend’s pale eyes, didn’t dream of being held tightly by his friend, and certainly didn’t think about his friend’s heart-shaped mouth wrapped around his cock while masturbating guiltily in the shower. It hadn’t been that bad at first, when he had thought it was nothing more than a physical attraction, but he had realised it was much more than that as soon as Sherlock’s arms had closed around him in that damned basement. He wasn’t just attracted to the man, he wanted him; he wanted every single piece of him for himself. He wanted the brilliant mind, the adrenalin and the danger, the comforting presence, the domestic shopping, the long nights under the duvet, and the ridiculous food fights. He longed for the strolls around London just as much as he wanted to chase after criminals, and he wanted to cook while the lazy git watched him from the kitchen chair. He wanted Sherlock to make him forget all about his injuries – real or psychosomatic – everyday, for the rest of his life.  
   
Every time his thoughts soared with desires and hopes, the heavy burden of reality soon came crashing back. Unless he was with Sherlock, it was terribly difficult to forget about his current situation for long; his father’s glazed eyes were like ghosts haunting him and following him everywhere. He had started showing signs of Alzheimer’s a few years before John’s deployment, but his condition had taken a turn for the worse during his absence. While John had been on leave, he had helped his father move from his house to John’s uncle’s; living with Harry had never been an option since she spent most of her waking time smashed out of her skull. For a while, it had been fine, but his father was now too sick, and he couldn’t be left without supervision. John’s uncle was doing the best he could do, but he was pushing eighty, and he couldn’t cope with his brother’s forgetfulness and aggressiveness on his own anymore.  
   
It was time to find his father an EMI home, but even with the help of Social Services, his army pension didn’t cover the remaining fees. His mother was long dead, he couldn’t count on Harry, and his attempts at finding a job had been unsuccessful; no one wanted a doctor with a psychosomatic limp and an intermittent tremor in his hand. A normal person would’ve taken a loan, and John had tried, but that hadn’t worked either. Once again, John berated himself for the mistakes he had made in his younger years. His family had always been prone to addiction, and John, good Watson that he was, had been no exception. For him, it hadn’t been alcohol, drugs, food, or sex. No, he had been seduced by gambling. It had started innocently enough with poker games, but soon he had gambled bigger and bigger sums. Sums he didn’t have. It was like being trapped in a whirlwind; it had happened so fast he had barely registered what was going on. He had applied for several loans, and being a medical student, it had been easy to obtain them. At first. As time had gone by, and as he had continued to spend money he didn’t have, he had gotten higher interest rates, and when he had finally gotten out of school, he had been buried in debt.  
   
Meeting the minimum payment every month hadn’t been that hard while he had been working as a doctor. It had been even easier when he had been in Afghanistan since his expenses had been almost non-existent. He had even managed to pay more than the required amount most of the time, but he had been shot and invalided home. With his income drastically cut, he barely had enough to eat _and_ pay the minimum due sum. When Mrs Holmes had contacted him, he had been desperate. His debt had been, still was, like an iron fist clutching at his heart, and he could feel his insides unpleasantly churning every time he thought about the enormous sum he owed. It was hard to breathe, and when he managed to relax enough to sleep, he had horrible dreams. It wouldn’t have been that bad if he had been alone, but he had to find a way to pay for his father’s EMI home. It was an absolute nightmare.  
   
Nonetheless, he hadn’t said yes to Mrs Holmes’ offer right away. It had taken months of exchanged emails and phone calls before he had agreed to a face-to-face meeting. The first word in his mind when he had seen the woman who was just slightly younger than his own father had been ‘commanding’. She had the demeanour of a queen, the fading beauty of someone who had most likely looked like an elf in her youth, and a sparkling vivacity. She had come to the meeting prepared; she knew everything about John and his financial problems, she even knew about his father’s illness. Her arguments had been substantial; she had offered the full payment of his loan and a private room with an en suite for his father. He had refused, but the proposal hadn’t left his mind, and three days later, upon receiving another colossal bill, he had called her to accept, but on his own terms: he would let her pay for his father’s room, but he would take care of his debt. Without rent to pay and someone to share the food expenses with, he would be able to slowly reimburse the sum he owed.  
   
Mycroft sounded like an ideal partner. First, he was a man; although he had been with both men and women, John preferred the company of men in long-term relationships. Second, Mrs Holmes had described him as somewhat old-fashioned, but with a lot of taste. She had said he occupied a very important position in the government, travelled often (something John enjoyed quite a lot), was patient, kind, hardworking, honest, caring, and handsome. Based on what Mrs Holmes had told him, John hadn’t doubted he and Mycroft would get along, and it didn’t seem impossible for him to eventually fall in love with someone like that. Soon after John had agreed, a first meeting had been scheduled one week prior to the engagement ceremony and two months before the wedding. The plan had been for him to stay at Mrs Holmes’ house with Mycroft before the engagement, and then move in with Mycroft. However, Mycroft’s presence had been required in Africa, and John had met the other Holmes brother instead.  
   
A solid hand on his shoulder shook him out of his reverie, and he looked up to see the smiling face of his fiancé looming over him. John smiled back, and when Mycroft extended a hand, inviting him to dance, John accepted and followed him onto the dance floor. He had danced with other men before, but it had been in clubs where jumping around and grinding against each other were par for the course. Ballroom dancing was very different, and there was a second of awkwardness when John wondered if he was supposed to lead or follow, but Mycroft immediately took the lead, and they slowly swayed to the music. John felt incredibly guilty; he was dancing with his fiancé, and he couldn’t help imagining a slimmer torso, sharper cheekbones, messier hair, plumper lips, and – oh God – a rounder arse.  
   
He had thought about asking Mrs Holmes if the offer was…transferable, of course he had, but she was counting on him, Mycroft was counting on him, and his own father was counting on him. He couldn’t risk losing everything just because of a stupid infatuation. Yet, he couldn’t convince himself that what he felt for Sherlock was infatuation, he knew it was much more than that; it looked a lot like – dare he say it – love. Still, he continued to refer to it that way, hoping one day he would come to believe it. In the meantime, he had to push Sherlock out of his thoughts; Mycroft was just as intelligent as his brother, he would know something was wrong. No more thinking about Sherlock, then.  
   
But where _was_ the man?  
   
John sarcastically congratulated himself; he had successfully stopped thinking about Sherlock for a little over ten seconds. He had truly hoped Sherlock would show up. He had missed his presence during the two days they had spent apart, and he couldn’t deny he was a bit worried. He needed to make sure the object of his infatuation (ha!) was alright; he hadn’t seemed like himself when John had left his flat, and his face when he had practically begged John not to marry Mycroft had been heart-breaking. John knew Sherlock had felt it too, the attraction between the two of them. Maybe they could arrange to meet in secret once in a while…. As soon as the idea of having an affair crossed his mind, John berated himself, and he felt blood rush to his cheeks.  
   
“Well, well…. Look who decided to grace us with his presence,” Mycroft murmured, and John turned around.  
   
His mouth went dry when he saw Sherlock.  
   
:::  
   
Sherlock didn’t actually listen while his mother vehemently expressed her displeasure. He couldn’t quite grasp what the problem was; he was there, he had shown up, which was a lot considering he almost hadn’t come. He could feel his mobile phone in his jacket pocket, and he could swear it seemed heavier than usual, heavier with John’s words. _Sherlock, please_ , he recalled as he looked around, scanning for the man.  
   
“—and the least you could do was arrive on time for your brother’s engagement celebration! What about the wedding? Will I have to tie you up? Tell me now, because Lord knows I will find handcuffs if I have to,” his mother said, but he wasn’t paying attention.  
   
John was dancing with Mycroft, but his eyes were fixed on him. They smiled at each other from across the room, and at that moment, Sherlock knew he would never be able to give John up. He was determined to find the motives that had pushed him into Mycroft’s arms, and to fix whatever needed to be fixed. He was a genius; he could do this. The first thing to do was to get John away from Mycroft’s fat and slimy hands. Then, he would play it by ear; how hard could it be to seduce someone who had begged him to come? When he could finally get away from his mother, he sneaked out of the banquet hall and took his phone out of his pocket to text John.  
   
 _Take the employee’s lift to the lowest floor. The cleaning supply closet is the fourth door on your right._  
   
He knew the hotel like the back of his hand; his mother had always thrown her receptions there, and he had had the time to explore every single corner of the place along the years. He knew the housekeeping staff had left, which meant the lowest floor would be the quietest place in the hotel. As he made his way down, he hoped John would come.  
   
Fortunately, he didn’t have to wait that long before he heard the lift grumble as it descended, and very soon, he could hear John’s familiar steps on the concrete floor. Sherlock opened the door, and John slipped inside without a word. Once the door was closed again, the only source of light came from the crack underneath; it was so dark they could hardly see each other.  
   
“You asked me to come,” John said.  
   
“No, you did,” Sherlock replied.  
   
“Yes, I— _Sherlock_ ….”  
   
To hear his name pronounced with such want, to hear John’s begging tone, it was too much. He had planned to discuss the upcoming wedding, drag the truth out of John, and shower him with convincing arguments for them to be together. His resolutions melted away as soon as John said his name, and he wasn’t aware he had moved until he realised his hands were on John’s waist. He could feel John’s breath on his neck; slightly more elevated than what it should have been, and so, _so_ warm. Sliding one hand over to John’s lower back to bring him closer, Sherlock bent down until his lips touched John’s ear. He could feel John shivering, and he smiled predatorily.  
   
“I want you,” he whispered, and John pressed closer as he let out a shaky breath.  
   
“Do you want me?” Sherlock whispered again, and his heart rate quickened when John let out a sound halfway between a whimper and a moan.  
   
Sherlock was torn between the urge to claim John’s mouth and kiss him until he forgot how to breathe, and the need to draw this out, to savour the moment in case he never had another one. But it couldn’t be the last time; it felt as if they were welcoming each other home, not as though they were saying goodbye. Delicately, he kissed John’s earlobe, and he let his lips slide across John’s cheek until their mouths were almost touching, but not quite. They were breathing the same air, sharing the same space. John brought his hands up to Sherlock’s neck, his thumbs stroking the soft skin in exceedingly slow, tantalising movements.  
   
“Yes,” he sighed, and he pulled Sherlock down for a kiss.  
   
The mood changed as soon as their lips touched. As slow and seductive as they had been the moment before, they were now hungry and desperate. John was clutching at Sherlock’s shoulders, while Sherlock was pulling John closer to him, although they were already joined at the hips. He wanted more of John; he wanted to draw John through his own skin until they were the very same person. Then, there would be no wedding, just John and him sharing the same body forever.  
   
Sherlock groaned into the kiss when he thought about the wedding, and therefore, his brother. He couldn’t think of Mycroft now, not when he was claiming John as his. He pushed John against the shelves, ignoring the clatter as several bottles fell to the floor. John slid Sherlock’s jacket down his shoulders and onto the floor, while Sherlock undid John’s tie and threw it across the room. John attacked Sherlock’s shirt buttons, and Sherlock tilted his head back, exposing his pale neck. John attached his lips to the soft flesh, sucking very softly as Sherlock let out an extraordinarily obscene moan that sent a rush of blood to John’s groin. He spent long minutes exploring Sherlock’s neck, tasting the skin he had longed to touch so often, while Sherlock started undoing John’s shirt buttons. When John sucked on his exposed Adam’s apple, Sherlock lost all dexterity in his fingers, and an extremely loud moan escaped his mouth before he could stop himself, making John chuckle.  
   
“Jesus, you’re loud,” he said.  
   
As a way to retaliate, Sherlock pinched John’s arse, which turned his soft chuckles into genuine laughter.  
   
“What was that?” he asked.  
   
“A way to shut you up, but it’s not working as well as I hoped,” Sherlock grumbled as he fumbled with John’s shirt.  
   
When he was done, he pushed John’s jacket and shirt down his arms before shedding his own unbuttoned shirt. Now that their eyes had accustomed to the darkness, they could see a little better, and for a long moment, they looked at each other without a word, smiling. Then, the laughter bubble burst, and they resumed savouring each other’s mouths. Sherlock sighed into the kiss when he felt John’s naked skin against his; it was even better than what he had imagined. John’s chest was smooth, almost hairless save for a lovely golden trail leading from his belly button to a place under his trousers Sherlock couldn’t see. Yet. Sherlock was determined to further explore the area, so he broke the kiss and slid down until he could lick and suck the soft skin. He kissed a slow path down John’s chest until he was kneeling in front of him, and finally he could take a closer look at the golden trail he had previously glimpsed. It was remarkable, just like the rest of him, and Sherlock gently bit the soft skin over John’s waistband. He was muscled, but civilian life had softened him a little; he was perfect.  
   
“I want to devour you,” Sherlock said, and John hummed in appreciation.  
   
“I want to taste every single part of you,” he added, and John moaned softly, his hips thrusting involuntarily.  
   
Sherlock took the hint, and he palmed John’s erection through his trousers.  
   
“No, come back up here, I need to see you,” John said breathlessly, and Sherlock obliged.  
   
When Sherlock was standing again, John pulled him close, grinding his cock against Sherlock’s thigh as he coaxed his lips open with his tongue. Sherlock let him in willingly, caressing John’s tongue with his own as he worked on unbuttoning the smaller man’s trousers. Then, he opened his flies and slid his right hand in, cupping John’s erection through his underwear. Despite John having difficulties regulating his breathing, he followed Sherlock’s lead and clumsily managed to undo his trousers, opening them before shoving a hand inside to cup the round arse he had been fantasising about for the last few days. Despite the cotton barrier of Sherlock’s boxers, he could still enjoy the warmth of the skin covering the well-defined muscles. Yet, it wasn’t enough; he needed more. His other hand joined the first inside Sherlock’s trousers, and he pulled him closer.  
   
Sherlock broke the kiss with a surprised “Oh!”, and he let his head fall back, his eyes closing as John squeezed his arse just tightly enough to drive him utterly mad. For a moment, he forgot where his hand was, and what he had been doing with it, but John rutted against him, and he resumed the tantalising up and down motion while John planted wet open-mouthed kisses to his throat.  
   
“Touch me,” Sherlock murmured, “John, please touch me, I need—”  
   
“Yes, anything you want,” John answered, his trembling voice muffled by Sherlock’s neck.  
   
John circled Sherlock’s narrow waist with his left arm, and he eased his right hand delicately inside the taller man’s underwear, shivering when the back of his hand touched the wet patch of pre-come on the front of Sherlock’s pants. He slowly closed his fingers around the warm and sensitive skin of Sherlock’s cock, and their simultaneous moans filled the cupboard. In that moment, only they existed; nothing else was real. There was only their combined scent, their laboured breathing and moans forming the most enticing of symphonies, and the feeling of their sweaty skins rubbing against each other.  
   
John could barely think, but when Sherlock’s skilful hand travelled from inside his trousers to inside his underwear, something exploded behind his closed eyes. Although he wished the moment would never end, he knew it wouldn’t take long; the overwhelming pleasure promised by Sherlock’s lips and hands was destroying his control, pulling him towards release. He continued to stroke Sherlock faster, while basking in the overpowering pressure building in his groin.  
   
When the door opened, both men jumped and quickly removed their hands from each other’s pants. The cupboard was flooded with light, and they had to blink several times before they could see properly. In the doorway stood Mycroft Holmes in all his glory. Other than a raised eyebrow, there wasn’t any sign of shock or surprise on his face.  
   
“Sherlock, John, there you are.”

:::


	11. Chapter 11

After their initial knee-jerk reaction to stop groping each other, Sherlock and John froze. Their trousers were undone and opened, sitting low on their hips and exposing their underwear. Their shirts and jackets were on the floor, their lips were swollen and red from kissing, they were breathing heavily, and Sherlock still had an arm around John’s waist. Of all the stupid excuses that crossed John’s mind (his clothes were on fire, he had something lodged in his throat and I was administering the Heimlich manoeuvre), none would have fooled a complete idiot, let alone Mycroft.  
   
“Mycroft, I am _so_ sorry,” John said, but Mycroft brushed him off with a small wave of his hand.  
   
“Mummy wants to take pictures with Sherlock in them,” Mycroft said, his voice perfectly undisturbed, “I expect you in the banquet hall in no more than ten minutes.”  
   
“Mycroft wait, we need to talk,” John said, but Mycroft paid him no attention.  
   
“Please try to look decent,” Mycroft said before getting out of the closet and closing the door behind him.  
   
Darkness engulfed them again, and John closed his eyes as he let out a very soft and sad laugh. Sherlock pulled him close and held him tightly, his hand tracing soothing circles on his back. John tilted his head forward until he could rest his forehead on Sherlock’s shoulder, and he exhaled loudly.  
   
“This is bad,” he said.  
   
“It’s not,” Sherlock answered, “you never wanted to marry him, but for some reason, you feel you have to. What problem can he fix that I can’t?”  
   
John laughed again, a defeated laugh that gripped Sherlock from the inside and _twisted_. He didn’t mind that John came with problems or demons; Sherlock had plenty of demons of his own. He had solved more puzzles than he could count; he was ready to deal with whatever Mycroft would have dealt with. Had John done something illegal? He was more than willing to cover traces, wipe off blood, dissimulate stolen jewels, or hide bodies.  
   
“Now is not the time, we need to go back,” John said as he took a step away from Sherlock. He picked up his discarded shirt and jacket, and started getting dressed again.  
   
“You’re not really following through with this?” Sherlock asked as he put his shirt back on, trying to smooth it as much as possible with his hands only.  
   
“We’ll take the bloody pictures in order not to upset your mother in front of her guests, then we’ll talk,” John said as he buttoned his trousers.  
   
When they were both presentable, Sherlock stepped into John’s personal space again, and he delicately nibbled at his earlobe.  
   
“I want you to come back to my flat tonight. And tomorrow, and the day after, and all the other days after that,” he murmured, and for a second, John forgot all about his debt to imagine a future with the brilliant man crowding him against the shelves.  
   
“Let’s go,” John said, and they reluctantly got out of the closet.  
   
In the lift, Sherlock grabbed John’s tie and drew him closer so he could kiss him. John’s lips parted, and Sherlock slid the tip of his tongue inside, teasing. John buried his fingers into Sherlock’s curls, and he pulled him even closer, taunting the taller man’s tongue with his own. He was a drowning man, and Sherlock was his anchor – had been since their first day together – and he felt as though he would drown if they broke the kiss. When the lift stopped, they grudgingly stepped away from each other.  
   
“For courage,” Sherlock said, and he winked before stepping out of the lift, John following with just a hint of uncertainty in his steps.  
   
The banquet hall was still filled with guests when they entered. A lot of them were dancing, some were beginning to be a little drunk, and loud bursts of laughter could be heard coming from different small groups scattered across the room. Mycroft had a glass of wine in his hand, and he was talking with his mother. When he spotted them, he nodded once and John felt his stomach drop. It wasn’t long before Mrs Holmes became aware of their presence and walked up to them.  
   
“Sherlock, your hair is a mess. If you refuse to use a comb, you should at least cut it,” she said as she tried to flatten her son’s curls, but he batted her hand away.  
   
“My hair is fine, Mummy. Now where is your photographer? I want to get this over with.”  
   
Within a few minutes, Mrs Holmes had gathered everyone who had to be involved in the pictures, and they were all standing in varied states of awkwardness close to the cream-coloured curtain they had used as a background throughout the evening. They took pictures of Sherlock alone, followed by pictures of Sherlock and Mycroft, and then pictures of the two brothers and John that were terribly uncomfortable. They took pictures with Mrs Holmes and her sons, then with various family members, and by the time they were done, half an hour had passed.  
   
For the rest of the evening, Mycroft fluttered from one group of people to the other while Sherlock and John sat at a table within a reasonable distance of each other. It took three more hours for all the guests to leave, and John had plenty of time to tell Sherlock all about his money troubles. Sherlock listened without interrupting, resisting the urge to take John’s hand and kiss his knuckles. When the last guests left, John got up, and Sherlock was about to do the same, but John put a firm hand on his shoulder to stop him.  
   
“Don’t, I need to speak with them alone,” John said.  
   
“I can help you explain,” Sherlock argued, but John shook his head.  
   
“Please, don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re impulsive and unpredictable. I think it’s better if I speak with them alone,” he said.  
   
Frowning and mildly offended, Sherlock watched John walk away from him to join Mummy and Mycroft. Unfortunately, Mummy and Mycroft thought it was undignified to raise their voices, so Sherlock couldn’t hear what was happening. John was bright red, Mycroft looked as calm as usual, and Mummy was listening to John speak, her mouth looking thinner than Sherlock had ever seen it. They talked for only twenty minutes, and yet it seemed longer for Sherlock who couldn’t hear, but who could see Mycroft and Mummy often turning to look at him.  
   
There was nothing he could do, so he busied himself with cataloguing all the facial expressions he could recognise on John, Mycroft, and Mummy’s faces. John was the easiest to read; he looked sheepish, repentant, guilty, scared, and a little hopeful. Mummy was disappointed at first, but by the time they were done talking, there was softness in her traits that suggested a resigned understanding. As for Mycroft, only small flashes of emotions sometimes showed on his face, and Sherlock thought he recognised acceptance with a hint of a bruised ego.  
   
When Mycroft detached himself from the trio and walked up to him, Sherlock got up, unwilling to face his brother while in a vulnerable position. For a few seconds, the two brothers looked at each other in silence.  
   
“Do you love him?” Mycroft asked.  
   
“That’s none of your business,” Sherlock answered petulantly.  
   
“Oh I believe it is,” Mycroft replied threateningly, taking a step forward.  
   
“John Watson is a good man, and for some unfathomable reasons, he loves you and wants to be with you. I am not letting him go just so you can have your way with him, get bored, and break his heart,” Mycroft added.  
   
“Can you hear yourself talk? ‘I am not letting him go’, what is he, a dog?”  
   
“Do you love him?” Mycroft asked again.  
   
“Still none of your—”  
   
“Do you love him?” he insisted, his voice low and menacing.  
   
Sherlock held his brother’s gaze for a long time, the question hanging between them like a sentence waiting to be pronounced. He thought about John, about the longing he felt every time they were close, and about how he could feel his soothing presence even when they were in two different corners of a crowded room. He thought about John’s many different smiles, about his comfortable jumpers, and the way his hair was ruffled in the morning. He thought about the way John fit in his flat, in his arms, in his life, about how easily he could bring Sherlock’s playfulness to the surface, and about the desires he had awakened. Not just sexual (although he had awakened those as well), but the desire to share, to comfort, to follow, to slow down a little. Was that love? He quickly scanned his inner dictionary, but he couldn’t find a better definition that included all the different things he felt for John.  
   
Love, then.  
   
“I love him,” he finally told Mycroft, because it was true and because he wanted to be left alone.  
   
Mycroft nodded once, and he returned to the place where John and Mummy were still talking. Sherlock remained where he was, but he was getting restless. He wanted to go back home, he wanted to take John with him, and he wanted to do very bad things to him. His mother interrupted what would have most likely been particularly naughty thoughts when she walked up to him. Once again, Sherlock was baffled by how small his mother could make him feel when she looked at him this way.  
   
“I asked you to pick him up, not to seduce him,” she said, and Sherlock was surprised to hear she didn’t sound angry.  
   
“Mummy—”  
   
“You brought him to see corpses in a morgue, you dragged him along in one of your cases, you chased after a criminal together, and you almost got him killed. Yet, he’s obviously smitten,” she told him with a small disbelieving frown.  
   
Sherlock looked across the room at the man who was crazy for him, and who was now talking animatedly with Mycroft. Mycroft was leaning towards John, and he was smiling, watching as John emphasised what he was saying with enthusiastic gestures. The possessive monster in Sherlock’s stomach gave an angry growl, but Mummy distracted him.  
   
“He’s completely insane, I hope you know that,” she said, and Sherlock smiled fondly.  
   
“I know,” he replied.  
   
Of course he knew. John wanted to be with him; he was clearly insane.  
   
“You’re a very lucky man.”  
   
“I know,” Sherlock said because there wasn’t anything else to say.  
   
He was fully aware of how fortunate he was. What he didn’t know was what he was still doing in a banquet hall at almost two in the morning. “Can we leave?” he asked.  
   
“John should come back to my house; his luggage is there,” she said.  
   
He won’t need any clothes, we’ll spend the whole day naked, he thought, but that wasn’t something one told his mother. Even when said mother had just given a relationship her blessing. Not that he needed it, but it was reassuring to know they would be left alone. The last thing he needed was his mother pestering him with less than subtle judgement.  
   
“You can send your driver with his luggage tomorrow,” Sherlock suggested, and his mother let out a dramatic sigh before agreeing.  
   
Sherlock kissed his mother on both cheeks, and he walked up to the place where John and Mycroft were still talking. He couldn’t help feeling ticked off that Mycroft and John still seemed to be getting along.  
   
“Are you ready to leave?” Sherlock asked a little more gruffly than he had intended.  
   
John turned around, and the smile he flashed him was so wide and bright he was instantly forgiven for being agreeable to Mycroft.  
   
“God yes, I’m so tired I can barely stand,” he answered before turning to Mycroft.  
   
“Goodnight Mycroft,” he said.  
   
“Goodnight John.”  
   
“Thanks. For everything,” John said and, with one last smile, he turned to leave. Sherlock nodded once at his brother, and he was about to leave when Mycroft stopped him.  
   
“Sherlock?” he said.  
   
Sherlock turned around with an irritated sigh.  
   
“What?” he asked.  
   
“Consider this the official ‘break his heart and I will make your life a living hell’ conversation,” he said, and Sherlock frowned.  
   
“You’re my brother, aren’t you supposed to say that to John?”  
   
“I did,” Mycroft answered. “Goodnight Sherlock.”  
   
Mycroft turned around to join his mother who was watching from afar, and Sherlock hurried to catch up with John who was waiting for him by the door. Together, they walked out of the hotel where a soft breeze was just cool enough to be pleasant. They found a cab and fell into bed together as soon as they arrived home.  
   
:::  
   
Sherlock woke up with his arms full of John. A very warm, very naked John. The events of the night before came flooding back, and he smiled at the sleeping doctor whose head was pillowed on his chest. The last twelve hours felt like a dream; the pain when he had realised that John wasn’t coming back, the hope when he had received his text, the surge of ardent desire when they had kissed in the closet, followed by the shock when they had been discovered. Then, there had been the anxiety and hope while he had been excluded from the discussion that would change the course of his life. But most of all, he remembered John’s smile as he had looked at him, and the feeling that everything would be alright.  
   
They still had many things to discuss, but John had wanted to wait until this morning, and Sherlock had agreed because John had started undressing, and that was an extraordinarily convincing argument to postpone a discussion. Apparently, even when he was exhausted, John gave mind-shattering blowjobs, and Sherlock had ended up sprawled on the bed, clutching the sheets and John’s hair while he had made sounds he had never heard himself make before. Despite his tired state, Sherlock had enthusiastically reciprocated until John had come apart while calling his name.  
   
Sherlock calculated how long John had slept, and whether it had been enough not to mind being awakened. Six hours, was it enough? It sure was enough for Sherlock. To distract himself, he started running a finger up and down John’s thigh. Soon, John was squirming in his sleep, and he woke up with a smile on his face. He extended a hand to grab Sherlock’s wrist, and he brought the hand up so he could kiss his palm.  
   
“Morning,” he said, his eyes still closed.  
   
“Can we talk, now?” Sherlock asked, and John laughed, his lips still pressed against Sherlock’s palm.  
   
“Can’t you wait until I’m actually awake?”  
   
Sherlock thought for a moment. He had been waiting since the night before, and the desire to know was stronger than the need to make love to John again, which was saying something. Also, he had been abnormally patient, and, therefore, deserved to know.  
   
“No,” he answered honestly, and John laughed again, snuggling closer until he could kiss Sherlock’s jaw.  
   
“Alright, then,” he said. “What do you want to know?”  
   
“Everything.”  
   
John’s story was told between sleepy kisses on Sherlock’s pale, inviting neck. He told him how he had started the discussion by telling Mrs Holmes and Mycroft that he was in love with Sherlock. He had told them it had been a surprise, but the attraction had been immediate, and the feelings had gotten too strong to ignore.  
   
“That’s when your mother asked me if I was sure,” he said, smiling as he recalled Mrs Holmes’ surprised expression.  
   
“What did you answer?”  
   
“What do you think I answered, you idiot?” John said before biting Sherlock’s chin lovingly.  
   
Sherlock laughed, and he stroked John’s side lazily, enjoying the way the sleep-warmed skin felt under his fingertips.  
   
“I told them I was sorry, and that I couldn’t follow through with the wedding. Your mother seemed upset, and she reminded me she had worked very hard on the organisation, but Mycroft asked her, and I quote, ‘How many other men do you think will declare their love for Sherlock?’”  
   
“Mycroft was on your side?” Sherlock asked, disbelieving.  
   
“There were no _sides_ , and stop interrupting.”  
   
They were distracted from the story for a while because Sherlock started pouting and John declared it was adorable, which caused Sherlock to insist he wasn’t pouting (while pouting some more). John then tried to kiss the pout away, and they ended up wrestling each other, John laughing so hard he almost fell off the bed. Several minutes later, when they had regained some composure, John resumed the story.  
   
He told Sherlock that Mrs Holmes had seemed more upset because they were breaking the tradition than by the fact that John was breaking his engagement with Mycroft. He also said that Mycroft hadn’t seemed upset by the events, only a little surprised. Then, John had been the surprised one when Mycroft had left to speak with his brother. Sherlock filled in the blanks on the conversation with his brother, and John looked up with bright eyes.  
   
“That makes sense; Mycroft came back saying he had no intention of standing in the way of a union born from love. It sounds a lot like something you would find on the back of a romance novel, but I think that’s what convinced your mother because soon enough she left to speak with you.”  
   
“She said I was lucky,” Sherlock said before remembering that they hadn’t even discussed the reasons John had agreed to marry Mycroft in the first place: John’s enormous debt and his father’s need for an EMI home.  
   
“I thought about your debt, and I think we could make it work. The rent isn’t that expensive, you could start coming with me on cases, and I could start accepting payment for every case I work on. We’ll figure something out for your father. I’ll take even the boring cases, or—”  
   
John, who had propped himself up on an elbow to watch Sherlock fondly, shut him up with a closed-lipped kiss.  
   
“You’re brilliant, but that won’t be necessary. Your mother said she still wanted to pay for my father’s home. I told her it was out of the question, but she insisted, and told me that anyone living with you deserved a little help.”  
   
Sherlock huffed, and John kissed his nose.  
   
“Are you going to pout again?” he asked, and Sherlock poked his stomach.  
   
“I continued to refuse her offer, but your mother is bloody persistent. I accepted after she threatened to break seven bones in my body. Deep down I knew she wasn’t serious, but there was a small part of me who believed her. Your mother can be terrifying!”  
   
“Did she say which bones?” Sherlock asked.  
   
“She didn’t, and I didn’t ask. She said she liked me, that I deserved to be happy, and that she had more money than she could keep track of. The only condition is we have to attend her Christmas party, and not just the dinner, the whole evening.”  
   
“John,” Sherlock moaned, “say you refused!”  
   
“I didn’t. But there are so many dark closets in your mother’s house,” John said seductively as he positioned himself over Sherlock.  
   
Humming in appreciation, Sherlock arched his back to gently rub his groin against John’s, and he smiled mischievously when John gasped. John then started sliding down, leaving long wet stripes on Sherlock’s skin along the way until he reached Sherlock’s iliac crest, and he started giggling uncontrollably. It had been too dark the night before to see all the moles and birthmarks sparsely scattered across Sherlock’s pale skin, but it was different now with the morning light coming in through the window. Over his inguinal ligament, in the place people often called Apollo’s belt, Sherlock had a birthmark shaped like a slightly squished heart. John spent nearly a minute staring at it while Sherlock wriggled impatiently under him, urging him on with small hip thrusts.  
   
Sherlock knew what John was thinking; he also remembered their first evening together, the deduction game he had suggested, and John’s surprise when Sherlock had revealed the location of his peculiar birthmark. He remembered how John had blushed and choked on his lasagne, and now that many details came flooding back, it seemed as though the first signs of attraction had been shown earlier than he had originally thought. Interesting.  
   
Yet, not quite as interesting as John’s tongue that was now circling his birthmark, flicking over the brown little heart, and making coherent thoughts so much harder to form. It was usually so easy to be attentive to dozens of small details at once, but he could feel every single one of his neurons focusing on John. On his fingers gripping his hips, his tongue flicking lower—always lower, his mouth suckling gently, and finally—oh, _finally_ , heat. A thick, wet, maddening heat wave that engulfed him and made his eyes roll back.  
   
:::  
   
They left the bedroom after several hours spent thoroughly exploring each other’s body, and only when John’s need for tea and food became too urgent for him to ignore. They stumbled into the kitchen wearing only their pants and extremely smug expression, Sherlock attached to John’s back like an overgrown limpet. When they entered the room, John stilled and closed his eyes as he was assaulted by the smell of lilacs he had been too exhausted – and aroused – to notice the night before.  
   
“Mm, that smells just like our first date,” John said playfully, smiling as he turned around to kiss Sherlock.  
   
“Wrong, our first date was the morgue and Angelo’s.”  
   
“You’re such a romantic.”  
   
“It worked for you, didn’t it?” Sherlock asked, and John laughed, kissing him one last time before moving away from his long arms to start preparing their breakfast.  
   
He put the kettle on, and found the two mugs Sherlock had broken and repaired. He picked up the one that had become his, the red one, and he ran a finger over the cracks. He had a hypothesis regarding what had happened to the mugs, but he didn’t mention it. Instead, he smiled at Sherlock when he sat in his usual place.  
   
“There’s pancake batter in the fridge,” Sherlock announced.  
   
“You kept it?” John asked while taking the bowl out.  
   
“No, I made some on Saturday. In case you came back,” he answered very quietly.  
   
Something about Sherlock’s defeated expression touched John, and he hugged the taller man from behind, kissing his neck.  
   
“Pancakes sound amazing,” he said, and he started looking for a pan.  
   
It was their old routine again, but it felt even better now that they knew their time together wasn’t limited. Sherlock sat on a kitchen chair while John made delicious tea with milk in it. Then, John cooked the pancakes while Sherlock observed and did absolutely nothing to help, which would annoy John sometimes, but not on that day. On that day, it felt natural and right; like the kind of morning that he had wished for all his life. Post-coital glow included.  
   
When John smiled at Sherlock from across the table, it was the same smile he had flashed him the night before. It was the smile that had made him incredibly happy because it had been so different from the way he had been smiling at Mycroft the moment before. Thinking about that made him remember that John had seemed particularly enthusiastic while chatting with Mycroft, and he needed to know why.  
   
“What were you and Mycroft talking about before I interrupted?” he asked, and John’s eyes lit up while he tried to swallow his mouthful of pancake as quickly as he could.  
   
“I had forgotten about that, thanks for reminding me! He asked what it felt like when I met you, and how I knew I was in love with you.”  
   
“What did you say?” Sherlock asked.  
   
“That’s not the interesting part. Aren’t you curious to know why he asked?”  
   
“Not really,” he answered while chasing a stubborn piece of pancake across his plate.  
   
“Well, I’m telling you anyway because I think it’s fantastic. He felt some butterflies fluttering in his stomach when he met DI Lestrade,” John said, hardly able to contain his excitement.  
   
“John!” Sherlock cried, his mouth full, “I don’t want to hear about my brother’s fluttering stomach!”  
   
“And I had no desire to see the half chewed food in your mouth. See, you can’t always get what you want,” John said as he got up to rinse his empty plate.  
   
As soon as he was done, Sherlock grabbed him by the waist and pulled him close. He dipped a finger into the golden syrup pooling in his plate, and he slid it over John’s right nipple before bringing his mouth to John’s chest to lick it clean. John groaned, and he ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair.  
   
“After the very dirty things I did to you earlier, I wouldn’t have thought a bit of half chewed food would have bothered you that much,” Sherlock said before giving John’s left nipple the same treatment.  
   
“We need to organise a meeting between them,” John said, his breath hitching just a little when Sherlock seductively sucked the excess syrup off his finger, his eyes fixed on John.  
   
“Why would we do that?” he asked.  
   
“Because,” John said as he slid a finger across Sherlock’s sticky plate, “if your brother is busy shagging the DI,” he added before trailing his finger across Sherlock’s lips, “he won’t have as much time to interfere with your life.”  
   
John watched, fascinated, as Sherlock licked his lips.  
   
“Plus, if the DI is high on endorphins from shagging your brother,” John said and he watched his finger disappear into Sherlock’s eager mouth, “he might be more inclined to let you in on cases to – ah! – solve them faster and be home sooner,” he finished, a little breathless just from watching Sherlock suck on his finger, his pale eyes never leaving his.  
   
Then, Sherlock let John’s finger go with a pop and he flashed him a feral grin.  
   
“Fetch me my phone, will you? We have some matchmaking to do.

:::


	12. Chapter 12

Christmas at Victoria Holmes’ house was an event the whole family (minus Sherlock) eagerly awaited. The house was always beautifully decorated, the meal was always delicious, and there was always an endless supply of eggnog. Mrs Holmes had outdone herself on this particular year, but the circumstances were exceptional; her two sons had brought their significant others. That fact had gotten out at the same time as the invitations, and no one doubted Victoria had leaked the information on purpose. Nonetheless, she had refused to discuss the matter, driving most of her relatives downright mad with curiosity. Therefore, the attendance rate was higher than normal; some Holmeses had even travelled for several hours just to see with their own eyes the most likely insane – albeit courageous – people who had engaged in relationships with Victoria Holmes’ sons.  
   
Most of the couples in the family were the result of arranged marriages, and other than Bernard and Mathilda who regularly had epic fights involving ancient swords, they were all quite happy. The Holmeses had always been an unusual family, but the world didn’t lack unusual people, and parents almost always found someone to marry their offspring. However, there had been doubts regarding Victoria’s sons. They were both particularly strange (even for Holmeses), and neither seemed interested in relationships, which could get in the way of an arranged marriage (it usually worked better when both parties were invested in settling down with someone).  
   
There had even been a wager once; people had bet on which one of her sons would get married first, how old they would be once they decided to get married, how long it would take to find them a partner, and if said partner would be a man or woman. Then, the wager had gotten quite silly as more eggnog had been consumed, and they had bet on the circumference of the partner’s right eye, the length of fingers and other random body parts, and the taste in underwear. By the end of the evening, the sum of money amassed had been considerable. Unfortunately, everyone participating in the wager had been so drunk by the time they had gone to bed that no one had remembered what the bet had been about, save for Adam who had kept shouting “The eyes! We must measure the eyes!” during breakfast.  
   
It was terribly late. Some of the guests had left, but most of them would be spending the night in one of the numerous guest bedrooms Victoria had in her enormous house. The dinner was long gone, the presents had been opened, and an extremely large quantity of alcohol had been consumed. Three brothers were standing close to the fireplace and signing Christmas carols in Latin, and some of the children were playing what seemed to be a game of chess with the youngest children acting as pieces.  
   
Victoria was watching her family from the sofa when her younger sister Cecile made her entrance in the living room with her husband. They had moved to America several years ago, but they came back for Christmas every year. Unfortunately, their flight had been delayed, which explained their unusually late arrival. When Victoria saw her sister approaching, she got up and embraced her warmly before leading her to the sofa.  
   
“How was your trip?” she asked, and Cecile laughed.  
   
“It was fine, but you know that’s not what I wish to talk about. Tell me, did you really manage to find partners for my nephews?”  
   
Victoria smiled proudly. “I did, I arranged the marriages of both Mycroft and Sherlock,” she said.  
   
“It’s true then! I couldn’t believe it; Mycroft _and_ Sherlock, married!” Cecile exclaimed.  
   
Victoria frowned, realising she hadn’t been entirely honest with her sister. “Well, they’re not married per se,” she admitted.  
   
“Still, I must congratulate you; no one, including me, thought you would ever get those two interested in a relationship. Tell me, how did you do it?”  
   
“I found John Watson first. On the Internet,” she said as she looked around the room to see whether she could find the doctor.  
   
She had lost track of Sherlock and him for almost an hour, but she spotted them coming into the living room, and she pointed at them so Cecile could see the man she had found after years of research. Victoria hadn’t actually thought about where the two men had disappeared to, but now that they were back, the motive behind their absence was blatant. It wouldn’t have been more obvious if they had been holding enormous signs with fairy lights spelling ‘WE JUST SHAGGED’ in wide blinking letters. Cecile let out a small laugh that she tried to hide behind her hand, without success.  
   
Sherlock’s hair was a mess of tangled curls, his shirt was ruffled, and it looked as if it had recently been shoved carelessly back into his trousers. Where there had been one undone button earlier, there were now two, and Victoria could see the hint of what would soon be a truly impressive love bite over his collarbone. His lips were plumper and redder than usual, and the lower part of his face seemed irritated, as if he had rubbed it against something scratchy (like the stubble on John’s face). John’s mouth was just as unusually red, he sported a very guilty expression, but a smug smile, and his tie was nowhere in sight. Victoria didn’t doubt she would eventually find it in one of her many closets. She rolled her eyes at her son’s complete lack of shame, and she watched as the two men walked up to the Christmas tree where Gregory Lestrade was standing, surrounded by small children.  
   
“Very nice, Victoria, he’s gorgeous. I must admit I am surprised Sherlock expressed the desire to meet someone, but you found him a very suitable partner; they obviously can’t keep their hands off each other,” Cecile said, still giggling discretely.  
   
“He didn’t want a husband. Mycroft did, however, so I started looking for someone and I found John,” Victoria said, and Cecile frowned, trying to figure out how John had gone from Mycroft’s potential husband to having sex in a dark corner of Victoria’s house with Sherlock. There were quite a few pieces missing from the puzzle.  
   
“What happened?” she asked, unable to figure it out by herself.  
   
“Mycroft couldn’t pick John up at the train station, so I sent Sherlock instead. I thought it would be safe, but Sherlock refused to let him go, and John refused to be let go of.”  
   
“Sherlock seduced him? Well done, nephew,” Cecile said.  
   
“I think it’s fair to say they seduced each other. They’ve been together for over seven months now.”  
   
“Do they plan on getting married?”  
   
Victoria had asked them earlier, soon after their arrival, but she hadn’t had a clear answer. Sherlock had just huffed, but John – kind and polite John – had said they didn’t feel the need or desire to be married for now, but that they could change their minds eventually.  
   
“Not right now, but it’s a possibility,” Victoria answered.  
   
“What about Mycroft?”  
   
“He’s sleeping in that armchair over there, and that’s his boyfriend, Gregory Lestrade. He’s the one holding the baubles,” she said as she pointed at the grey-haired man who was standing close to the Christmas tree.  
   
“Oh, he’s so handsome!” Cecile exclaimed.  
   
They watched as Gregory took a few more baubles off the tree and gave them to the small children gathered around him. The children who had been disappointed earlier when they hadn’t been chosen for the chess game had forgotten all about their previous sorrow. They were roaring with laughter as Lestrade pressed a single finger to his lips, gesturing for them not to wake Mycroft who had fallen asleep in the armchair closest to the tree. Tiptoeing, the kids brought their baubles close to the armchair, and they started attaching them to Mycroft’s ridiculous Christmas jumper (a gag gift from Gregory that he had refused to take off). The children who were too small to reach were jumping up and down excitedly beside Gregory, and he took them in his arms one by one to bring them close to the sleeping Mycroft so they could participate in the decoration of his jumper.  
   
“Where did you find him?” Cecile asked when she could finally tear herself away from the sight of that handsome man playing with the little ones.  
   
“I didn’t _really_ find him. He works for Scotland Yard, and he sometimes calls Sherlock to ask for his help on cases,” Victoria said.  
   
“You thought he would make a fine fiancé for Mycroft, and you organised a rendezvous?” Cecile asked.  
   
“Not exactly. Mycroft met him once, and he was attracted to him. John knew, he told Sherlock, and together they planned a series of what seemed like chance meetings. When Mycroft and Gregory seemed comfortable enough with each other, John organised a dinner for the four of them, but he and Sherlock never showed up. After that, it was only a matter of weeks before they confessed their attraction, and they’ve been a couple for three months.”  
   
Cecile thought for a while, examined the facts, and observed the two couples. They weren’t married, and the more she thought about it, the less convinced she was that her sister had had anything to do with the relationships. Sure, she had found John Watson, but she had found him for Mycroft, and he was now hugging Sherlock from behind, standing on tiptoes so he could kiss his neck. Not what Victoria had had in mind in the beginning.  
   
“How can you keep calling it arranged marriages? They aren’t even engaged, and from what I understand, Sherlock and John got together on their own because they loved each other, not because you suggested it. Also, you had nothing to do with Mycroft and Gregory. If their relationship was arranged, it was arranged by Sherlock and John.”  
   
Victoria smiled to herself and didn’t respond for a while. She thought about the long search for the perfect fiancé, about the many conversations she had had with John Watson who had been hard to convince. She thought about her two boys, and how happy they seemed, especially Sherlock who was usually so gloomy when he attended the Christmas dinners. For the first time in years, Sherlock and Mycroft hadn’t bickered like spoilt children; their attitude towards each other had been almost civil, and she was sure John and Gregory had something to do with it. Either way, it had been a particularly enjoyable Christmas.  
   
“Imagine that I topple the first domino in a long line. The domino topples the second one, which topples the third, and so on. Who do you blame for the fall of the last domino? The penultimate domino, or the person who toppled the first one?” Victoria asked.  
   
Cecile laughed and shook her head, still unconvinced. Victoria didn’t mind; she knew her boys were happy, and she knew she had played a role in their happiness. Not much else mattered.

The end.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Vid for "The Pull of One Magnet to Another"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/645737) by [Indrikhole](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Indrikhole/pseuds/Indrikhole), [Lucky Jack (Lucky_Jack)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucky_Jack/pseuds/Lucky%20Jack)
  * [Art for "The Pull of One Magnet to Another"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/645774) by [Lucky Jack (Lucky_Jack)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucky_Jack/pseuds/Lucky%20Jack)




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